


White Fire

by aRavenAndaDesk



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Original Character(s), Plotty, Redemption, Slow Build, dark themes, in case that wasn't obvious enough lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 113,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8464396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aRavenAndaDesk/pseuds/aRavenAndaDesk
Summary: This is a story about choices.





	1. In absentia

The painting in Carlyle’s office was new. Where a simple Jackson Pollock facsimile once stood, now a framed etching of a shipwreck in black waters decorated the wall. It looked authentic, not just a copy. Numbers wondered how much Carlyle had paid for it. Nevermind, the guy never paid for anything himself if he could avoid it. He had probably stolen it.

“I need you two to take care of Frank Marsh.”

Numbers mulled that name in his head. Frank Marsh. Didn’t ring any bells. Was he supposed to recognize it? He scanned Carlyle’s face, who was looking at him impassively behind his square glasses. His bald head had a slight gleam under the light that came in through the window, like his skin was made of wax. Sitting there in his huge office chair, with his hands clasped on top of his desk and his poker face looking at Numbers like he was auditing him, the guy really did look like a robot.

“And who is that?” Numbers replied candidly. If he was going to look like an idiot for not even knowing the names of the people he worked with, so be it. They’d made him get up at six for this meeting and he was slightly hangover, he was not in a state to give a rat’s ass about it.

Carlyle held his gaze for a moment before answering. “I mean Mr. Viper” he clarified. Apparently Numbers’ reaction had been the correct one, because he didn’t comment any further. Of course. Numbers was not supposed to know his colleagues’ real names, save a few exceptions. Oh. So that was a test. That was something that Carlyle liked to do from time to time, creep in trick questions in random conversations to keep his employees in check. Sneaky bastard.

“Didn’t he kill himself?” Numbers asked.

“That’s what we thought. But apparently Mr. Viper has been living the good life in Manassas right under our nose all this time. I want you and Wrench to go there and take him out, quickly and discreetly. You know what to do.”

Numbers sagged on the chair, his shoulder hunched. “Fine, then.” He groaned. “Any information in particular that we need to shake out of him? Bank accounts, names?”

Carlyle shook his head slowly. “No, that part won’t be necessary.”

That statement threw Numbers off. In his experience, almost every job that contained the phrase ‘take him out’ also included a parameter where they were required to extract some information from their target before finishing them. Usually, it was something relating to a large sum of money. He knew that he was toeing a dangerous line for questioning his superior’s orders, but curiosity got the better of him.

“What do you mean?” He asked with incredulity. “There’s nothing you want us to ask him before we cap him for good? Surely you want to know where your money went?”

“There is nothing to ask because there is no money” Carlyle explained very slowly, like Numbers wasn’t very bright and needed to have it spelled out for him. “Right now, Mr. Viper is… how should I put this? He’s a wildcard. A loose end. An itch that needs to be scratched. We don’t like things that we cannot predict in this business. They have a pesky tendency to turn on you sooner or later. And what else can you expect from a snake, anyway?” Carlyle accompanied that sentence with what Numbers assumed was an attempt at a smile. He felt tempted to tell his boss that he shouldn’t bother, emulating human emotions was clearly beyond his range of capabilities. “We want you and Mr. Wrench to nip this in the bud, no fuss made, no questions asked. That’s all.” He pulled a thin folder from a drawer and left it on the desk for Numbers to take. “Here’s all you need to know. Now grab your partner and get going.”

Numbers knew that Carlyle was itching to get him out of his office to clean up the mud that his shoes had left in the carpet. It had been raining the whole morning. Not even a few seconds after closing the door behind him, Numbers heard the buzzing of the handheld vacuum that he knew Carlyle kept under his desk and rolled his eyes. He’d always suspected that his bald boss was a bit of a germaphobe.

He opened the folder and read some of the information on it with a mixture of curiosity and dread. He quickly learned several things previously unknown to him about the other hitman from the scarce information in the pages. A few things made more sense now, but reading it also gave him a sense of unease that he wasn’t used to. This felt personal.

Wrench was waiting for him in an empty conference room with glass walls, leafing through a hunting magazine. The chair was too small for his long legs and he didn’t look very comfortable. To catch his attention, Numbers waved the folder and left it on the glass table in front of him. _‘They want us to take care of Viper’_ he signed.

Wrench frowned and took the folder. His eyes scanned the contents of the first document before looking up at his partner again. _‘Didn’t he kill himself?’_

_‘Apparently not. Looks like he just staged a suicide and then bailed. They never found his body, remember? Pretty clever, if you ask me.’_

Frank Marsh, AKA Mr. Viper, had gotten his nickname due to his signature weapon of choice: poison. The man was a walking encyclopedia of toxic substances that could kill a human while making it look like the victim had died of natural causes and left no trace in the body. He was known for carrying around small bags of strange powders and vials of suspiciously looking liquids. However, Viper was no stranger to close-range combat and more rudimentary execution methods; he didn’t always poison his targets. But when he did, it always made for a good story to tell. He had become a bit of a legend in the syndicate before his abrupt departure. Like his chemicals, he was a silent killer, always lurking, waiting for the moment to strike before slithering back to the shadows where he belonged. Numbers had heard that he dipped his knives in rattlesnake venom and that he actually had a degree in Pharmacology. How one went from Pharmacy school to becoming a hitman for the organized crime, Numbers had no idea. But life could do funny things like that sometimes.

That being said, Numbers thought that Viper was overall an alright guy, all things considered. He mostly kept to himself and you could say he had some slight deficiencies in terms of social skills. A lot of the mobsters in the syndicate were reluctant to work with him because they said the guy made them nervous. _“One of these days that autistic crackpot is going to blow a fuse and lock us all in the building with a nerve gas bomb, I’m telling you!”_ Numbers had heard one of them say. And okay, hyperbole much? Viper was resourceful, but there was no way he had the knowledge to make chemical weapons of mass destruction. No way.

Nevertheless, the guy had never been anything other than civil and polite to him and Wrench in the few times they had interacted. The same could not be said about most of the other henchmen they were forced to work with. Wrench couldn’t hear the jokes they made behind his back, but Numbers sure could. They had learned the hard way that it was impractical to pick up fights with every single asshole that dared to insult him or his partner if he expected to make a lasting career in the syndicate.

The only time Numbers had seen Viper lose his cool was when the poison expert had caught Wrench messing with his things. Viper had left his messenger bag on a table for a minute, half-open, and Wrench and Numbers had been sitting there, bored out of their minds. Wrench simply couldn’t help it, he was a very tactile person. He wasn’t actually going to steal anything. But when Viper came back and saw him poking around his bag, he was livid. The look on his face was akin to that of a parent when seeing their child playing with a grenade, Numbers had noted with surprise.

“DON’T TOUCH THAT!” Wrench didn’t hear Viper screaming at him, but everyone else in the building surely did. Numbers had tugged at his partner’s sleeve insistently to draw his attention, already dreading the scolding they were going to get for that. “Do you know what that is? Those are _curare darts_! Jesus Christ, do you want to accidentally nick yourself and die a slow agonizing death?”

Viper had snatched the bag out of Wrench’s hands and left the room hurriedly, muttering to himself. _Shouldn’t have left it lying around, stupid, stupid_.

He was a bit quirky like that. A quirky guy that carried around a case of darts with one of the most dangerous neurotoxins in the world. That kind of guy.

Numbers took one look at his partner’s face and knew that they were both reminiscing. Wrench didn’t look happy about that job. Not happy at all.

They exited the building without another word. They had just enough time to go back to their apartment and pack their things before hitting the road. With two whole days of travelling ahead of them, they tacitly agreed to take turns driving. Like the mature adults they were, they decided whose turn was to drive first via rock-paper-scissors. Wrench lost.

They stopped for lunch at a diner that was only being manned by a tall balding man with kind eyes and a plump woman with cat eyeglasses, probably husband and wife. The woman took their order with so much as a grunt of acknowledgement, and then went back behind the register and proceeded to forget about their existence. Her husband, on the other hand, tried to make friendly conversation when he served them their food, asking them if where they were headed to and such, until he took the hint from Numbers’ one-worded answers and left them alone. Numbers figured that they didn’t see many travelers that time of year. He mostly pushed his food around the plate, trying to avoid his partner’s gaze. It was a difficult task. He swore he could feel Wrench’s eyes piercing through his skin, like an ant under a magnifying glass in the July sun.

 _‘What is it?’_ He asked when he grew tired of playing that game. Wrench had a trail of sauce on the corner of his mouth. Numbers took a napkin and wiped it for him. Wrench was taken aback for a moment, but he consented to the fastidious gesture.

 _‘Did Viper steal Fargo’s money?’_ Wrench asked after the napkin was removed from his face.

_‘No.’_

_‘Did he join a rival syndicate?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Did he rat us out to the feds?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Did he put rat poison in Carlyle’s coffee or something?’_

_‘Not as far as I know, sadly.’_

_‘Then what’s the big the deal? Why the fuck are they bothering us with this bullshit?’_

Numbers looked at his partner sadly. He knew what Wrench was trying to hint at. That the whole endeavor seemed pointless. A needless bloodshed, even by their standards.

_‘Because he left.’_

He admitted what neither of them wanted to say out loud: that there was no way out of that life. Desertion was a crime punished by death. They had known it all along, but they always tried to keep that little fact out of their minds, convincing themselves that this life was all they wanted. But they could only delude themselves for so long. Numbers could feel them, the nagging doubts that plagued him late at night, the unspoken promises and what-ifs. Maybe it was because he was getting older, but he could feel himself longing for other things, things that their lifestyle could not provide. Sometimes this feeling made him angry at himself, so he overcompensated by being more brutal than necessary on their targets. And each time he did, Wrench would give him this look, not of disgust or disappointment, but like he was confused by him. And in the end it would just leave Numbers feeling empty inside.

These days, he just felt so tired. So, so tired.

 _‘I actually liked the guy.’_ Wrench said after a while. _‘I couldn’t believe it when you told me he had offed himself.’_ He literally used the sign for ‘turning off’, which Numbers would have found very amusing if he wasn’t in such a somber mood.

 _‘Don’t’_ Numbers stopped him before he could go on in that vein any further. _‘It’s no use. We have to do this. We need to focus.’_

And truth be told, Numbers thought when they were back in the car, he couldn’t believe it either when the news of Mr. Viper’s sudden self-ejection from this world had reached his ears. Their colleague had been acting perfectly normal, until one day, he had simply stopped answering Fargo’s calls. The police of St. Paul had found his car (actually Fargo’s car) abandoned on the outskirts of town, close to the High Bridge. The doors were open and the keys were inside. It was hard to imagine the tale of a hardened killer like Frank Marsh ending with him jumping off a bridge, but on the other hand, the man was known for his frequent bouts of melancholy. The car was empty except for a note in the glove compartment with only five words in it.

 _I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE_.

As far as suicide notes went, it certainly met the standards, although the wording was a bit vague. Numbers had thought at the time that the guy had made it that way on purpose so that Fargo would get the point without tipping the cops in the process. Surely, if he had written ‘I can’t keep assassinating gun dealers and moneylenders for a living, it’s eating me up’ that would have been a bit of a situation, albeit a very comical one in a way. But in retrospect, Numbers thought, maybe there was a double meaning to the note. Perhaps the suicide was fake, but the intent behind those words was not. Vipers had absolutely meant it. It had never been a goodbye letter; it was simply a declaration of intentions.

Fargo had checked Viper’s apartment. It didn’t look like he had packed anything. There was no evidence of clothes or personal items missing, everything looked perfectly in place. His bank account was intact. All of this coupled with the note and the ominous location where the car had been found made it easy to guess what had happened to Viper. The organization had wisely decided to not report him missing to the authorities. Doing so would only result in long wasted hours that the police would spend searching the depths of the river fruitlessly, only to declare the man legally dead after whatever number of years the law required to do so had passed. And more importantly, it would draw unnecessary attention to the syndicate. There was no question, really. Fargo’s enforcers only existed to Fargo. When they were gone, they were gone for good, to be forgotten forever by the rest of the world. Like they had never existed.

But apparently, the high-ups hadn’t been completely convinced by the circumstances surrounding Mr. Viper’s presumed suicide, because they had investigated further until they had found him. Fargo would always find them. That’s what they did. And not many people besides Wrench and Numbers knew this, but it was no surprise, considering that the man at the top of the organization himself was a top old-school tracker. Or at least, he’d once had been.

They checked in a motel to stay the night. Numbers lied down on his bed without taking his clothes off, staring at the ceiling. He heard Wrench shuffling around the room, changing into his sleeping clothes, checking the bag where they kept their weapons, keeping himself busy. Eventually, Numbers felt the bed dip when his partner climbed in and wrapped himself around him. Numbers sighed and put his arms around the other man’s back. He knew he eventually would have to get up and go take a shower, but he granted himself those few minutes of just laying there with Wrench.

 _‘That was a good trick, what Viper pulled’_ Wrench propped himself up on his elbows and signed with arms tired from driving for hours. _‘He almost had Tripoli fooled.’_

 _‘Yeah’_ Numbers admitted. _‘He really took care of all the details. He was very thorough.’_

_‘He had to leave everything behind. He couldn’t take anything with him, or they would suspect. Can you imagine that? To walk away with just the clothes on your back, so you can start over somewhere else?’_

Numbers scoffed. _‘He probably had a secret stash of money hidden somewhere. I bet he planned it all with months in advance.’_

 _‘I still don’t understand what we’re doing here’_ Wrench signed with jerky movements. _‘We could all just pretend he’s already dead. I mean, what difference does it make? So he doesn’t want anything to do with Fargo anymore. I say as long as he doesn’t fuck with us, cool. We could be home right now.’_

 _‘Don’t be stupid. That’s not how this works.’_ Numbers massaged the bridge of his nose. He shimmied out from under his partner’s body and leaned over to take off his shoes. He felt Wrench shuffle backwards to rest against the headboard. Sighing, he turned around to look at him. _‘You know Viper has always been unpredictable. And a guilty conscience makes you do stupid things. Like turning yourself in to the cops. And then you start talking and talking.’_

 _‘That’s bullshit and you know it’_ the look on Wrench’s eyes was intense. _‘He wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble just to rat us out now. The guy was a weirdo, but he wasn’t stupid.’_

_‘You don’t even know him that well. And neither do I.’_

_‘I know he saved our asses once.’_

_‘I don’t make the rules, okay?’_ Numbers hoped that his face could express the frustration that his hands couldn’t. _‘Carlyle was very clear. Viper is a potential timebomb. Better safe than sorry.’_ He got up from the bed and made his way to the bathroom without looking back at Wrench’s reply.

He took longer than necessary in the shower. When he back into the room with his hair still damp, Wrench was engrossed in a book and pointedly not looking at him. Numbers glanced back at the other, empty bed in the room, unsure. They tended to give each other some space after a fight, a sort of unspoken agreement that they’d developed over the years. Did they just have a fight? He didn’t even know. But clearly standing there like an idiot was not the answer. He went over to Wrench and loomed over him blocking the light of the lamp until his partner was forced to meet his eyes.

 _‘Look, I-’_ His hands fidgeted in the air as Numbers struggled to find the words. He stilled them for a moment and then signed with an earnest look in his eyes _. ‘I don’t want us to be angry at each other over something we can’t control.’_

Wrench nodded. He looked resigned. ‘ _If that’s what you think.’_

Numbers wanted to say more. A blood debt was still a blood debt. He wanted to say that if he ever had to choose between his partner’s life and anyone else’s, he would always choose Wrench. Even of the other person didn’t really deserve it. But he was tired and he didn’t want to end an already long day with a heavy conversation, so he didn’t say anything.

Numbers clambered over to get in the bed with him, but his partner stopped him with a hand on his chest.

 _‘You’re not going to bed with your hair wet, you’ll catch a cold’_ he said.

 _‘Okay, mom’_ Numbers replied sarcastically, but still went back to the bathroom to towel it off properly.

That night, Numbers dreamed that he was floating above a wide river. He was flying, higher and higher, over grey-blue waters, and he could see dark shapes swimming in the deep, waiting for him to fall and devour him.

The second day of driving was as uneventful as the first one. They bought packaged food in a gas station and ate it at a rest area overlooking a small park. It was a sunny Sunday and there were kids playing on the swings. Numbers sat on a bench and tried not to look like a creep while Wrench picked the red peppers off his sandwich and fed them to the pigeons. Numbers’ lack of appetite continued, but he forced himself to eat. It seemed like the knot of apprehension in his stomach didn’t leave much room for anything else.

 _‘You’re too old to be a picky eater’_ Numbers said. One of the perks of sign language was that talking with his mouth full wasn’t nearly as rude.

_‘And you’re too cheap to buy something actually edible instead of these pieces of plaster.’_

_‘Half of the expenses of this trip are for gas money. I’ll take you somewhere nicer when they don’t send us on a fucking pilgrimage across states for a job.’_

A bird with an underdeveloped wing approached them cautiously, hopping on its tiny scaly legs. It picked one of the red peppers that Wrench had discarded in its beak and scurried away before another bird could take it. It was kind of pathetic. That bird clearly couldn’t fly, and Numbers wondered how the hell it had survived that long, having to compete for food and avoiding opportunistic and much quicker predators.

_‘You just dragged out that poor little thing’s miserable existence by feeding it for another day. How cruel of you.’_

Wrench gave him the side-eye. _‘And you’re a real expert on misery, aren’t you?’_

 _‘Absolutely. I’m a world E-M-I-N-E-N-C-E on all things relating to death and misery. In fact, I’m going to charge you for that piece of wisdom. You’ll receive my bill in the mail.’_ His partner grinned a little, and that feeble tug of a smile loosened the knot in his stomach a tiny bit. _‘Finish your sandwich already, we’re running late.’_

* * *

 

Wrench had never been one to question orders. He did his job, didn’t make dumb mistakes, didn’t step out of line, never caused any drama, and never complained. He got paid after each job and then he went home with his partner and tried to relish every minute to the maximum until their next assignment came in. It was simple, and it worked for him. Back when he was much younger and Tripoli had started tasking them with more demanding duties than running errands or being lookouts, Wrench had decided that nobody in that syndicate apart from Numbers meant anything to him. It was the only way to cope.

At that point, it was already clear that their lives were irreversibly interwoven with Fargo. It hadn’t happened overnight, of course. But their ‘mentor’ (if he could even be called that, but there was no accurate word to represent the force of nature that had dragged them out of the orphanage and put pocket knives in their then-small hands) had a way to worm himself into people’s heads. Fear was a very compelling force to keep people in line. And everyone feared Moses Tripoli, the mysterious man that had come out of nowhere one cloudy morning and had almost single-handedly taken over the Kansas City and Fargo crime syndicates. Wrench was too young back then, but he remembered the grisly stories. Fear, however, tended to lose its effectiveness as a persuading force over time if you didn’t feed it regularly. It simply wasn’t the best way to keep the reins of a cohesive organization long-term. So either Tripoli kept committing horrific atrocities to those who crossed him from time to time, or he changed his leadership methods drastically. Tripoli was a man that didn’t feel like he needed to choose. He thought he could have it all. So he took both options. He was generous enough with his enforcers that they were usually very loyal to him, but so ruthless with his enemies that most people thought twice before messing with him.

Sort of like a god, someone in the syndicate had said one day. Or maybe a demon you make a deal with. But definitively something not from this world. It didn’t matter anyway. All that Wrench knew is that he had no family, no future prospects, and one day he’d woken up to the news that apparently he was indebted to life to this guy, he just hadn’t gotten the memo yet. Everything Wrench had in the whole world were his childhood friend and his own willingness to live. So Wrench had distanced himself mentally from Fargo, even if he worked for them. The drugs, the black market guns, the petty infights to ascend. He had distanced himself from it all. It was all just a job to him, and the other guys could all rot for what he cared. As long as he had Numbers with him, that was all he needed. He thought that his partner felt more or less the same way, although Numbers preferred his deep cynicism and booze as coping mechanisms.

Neither of them was super crazy about their jobs, if they were to be honest with themselves. But that was all they’d ever known, and it turned out over the years that they were also pretty good at it, so what else were they supposed to do, really?

It wasn’t like they were gunning people down every other week. Most of their tasks were things like safeguarding packages, ensuring that a transaction went through smoothly, or getting information. There were many long boring hours of surveillance involved, too. Every now and then they got the occasional jerk who thought he was smarter than the accountants at Fargo who worked sixteen hours a day and proofread everything three times. And hence these morons would fall under the delusion that they could get away with stealing a few thousand like nobody was going to notice. But those guys were always sleazeballs to begin with, so Wrench didn’t feel much remorse when he had to dispatch one of them. He had read once that according to statistics, the majority of crime victims were also involved in criminal activities themselves. It made sense. If you spent a lot of time mingling with thugs and crooks, you were much more likely to have something nasty happen to you. Play with fire, get burnt. It was only a matter of circumstance that made guy A the evildoer and guy B the victim instead of the other way around. Scumbag criminals killing other scumbag criminals. Who cares, right?

But, still. It was just that sometimes, Wrench couldn’t help wondering how his life would be like if things had been different.

The second night of travelling there was less tension in the air, but they were feeling even more exhausted at the end of the day. The second motel was much cleaner than the first one, and the room smelled fresher too, like it actually had decent ventilation. If they left early in the morning, they expected to reach their destination around noon. That would leave them enough time to devise a plan. Wrench changed into his sleeping clothes while Numbers was in the shower. That was just one of the many things where they contrasted, Wrench liked to shower in the morning, while Numbers was a night shower person. Wrench lied down on the bed that was the closest to the window and thought about the job. He knew that he’d been acting too contrarian and bellicose to Numbers about the whole thing, and his partner didn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else. Maybe Wrench was just trying to force a reaction out of Numbers to force a reaction in himself in return. In the end, Wrench knew that he was going to do this job without much of a hassle. He’d known Viper, and he truly felt some sort of fondness for the guy, the kind one feels towards a familiar and non-hostile face in a world populated by strange and hostile faces, like a small spot of respite. But now Wrench had to do this, for his own survival as much as his partner’s. And he found that the thought of wiping Viper off the face of Earth didn’t upset as much as he thought it would. Maybe that was what was making him protest so much. Maybe the fact that it didn’t affect him as much as he thought it should was what truly made him upset. When had he become so numb to everything? Maybe he was just repressing his emotions.

Or maybe he was just overthinking it.

Numbers came back from the bathroom, a puff of steam dispersing behind him like he was making a grand entrance. He sat down on the other bed, his knees perfectly aligned with the vertical brown and blue stripes of the duvet. Wrench wondered why they even bothered to book rooms with separate beds anymore. Some habits were hard to break, he guessed. He looked at Numbers, and his partner held his gaze, clutching the towel around his waist tightly.

 _‘What?’_ Wrench asked.

Numbers’ eyes had faded completely to black. He leaned forward just a tiny bit, enough for a drop of water to trail down from his clavicle to his belly button. Wrench followed it with his eyes.

 _‘I can’t sleep right now.’_ Numbers said.

_‘Me neither.’_

The space between the two beds might as well not have existed at all. Wrench left his arms fall down to his sides, palms up in invitation. Numbers arose from his seat and closed the distance in one fluid move, but it didn’t register to Wrench because he was looking at his eyes the whole time. His partner straddled his lap, and Wrench also wondered why they kept these formalities as well. I was a sort of dance they had where one of them would ask for permission indirectly, gauging the waters before initiating things, and the other would respond in kind. Every bit of communication between them was like a secret language. Not just the signing that kept them apart from everyone else, but also the nicknames, the inside jokes, the nonverbal cues they had picked up from each other after spending their whole lives joined at the hip. Codes within codes within codes.

Numbers kissed him like he wanted to fuse with him, like two pieces of molten glass. Wrench shivered at the thought of even trying to build a bond like this from scratch with anyone else.

 _‘Have you heard about the theory of parallel universes?’_ Wrench asked later, when they were sprawled in a tangle of sheets, dazed and content.

Numbers gave him a puzzled look, like he could understand the words individually but the whole sentence in which they had been arranged made no sense to him. _‘What are you talking about?’_

_‘I’ve been reading about it. You know about that famous experiment, the one with the cat inside a box that was dead and alive at the same time?’_

_‘Yes, you mean-’_ Numbers started fingerspelling what Wrench assumed was ‘Schrödinger’, but it was too long and he was too lazy so he gave up halfway and shrugged. _‘Yes, I know about it.’_

Wrench rolled his eyes. _‘There’s a theory that expands on it that says that there is an infinite number of alternate universes that exist at the same time. Every time someone makes a decision, at every single second, the universe splits. So in one universe you’ve made one choice, but in another there’s another version of you that’s made the opposite choice.’_

_‘Every single choice? Like when I decide in the morning which cologne to wear or whether to floss or not? Sounds incredibly R-E-D-U-N-D-A-N-T.’_

_‘But it’s interesting to think about it, don’t you think? If there are other worlds where we made different choices. Maybe there’s a universe where we have completely different lives.’_

Numbers smirked at the idea. He stretched on the pillows like a satiated cat, reaching out a pale arm to rub Wrench’s belly seductively. _‘Do you think there’s a universe where I’m a rockstar? Like there’s another version of me that’s rolling in groupies and cocaine?’_

Wrench snorted. _‘Sure. And maybe there’s another universe where you’re a writer. Or a teacher. Or a cop.’_

 _‘A cop? As if that would ever happen.’_ He waved his hand at the ridiculousness of the idea. _‘No, I think that some things are set in stone. They’re bound to happen one way no matter what you do.’_

_‘Like what?’_

Numbers shrugged, scratching his ear. _‘You know, things.’_

 _‘Come on, what kind of things?’_ Wrench prodded.

Numbers shrugged again, refusing to meet his eye. But Wrench was stubborn, so he trailed his fingers down his partner’s chest until he saw the dark hairs on his forearms begin to rise with goosebumps. Numbers’ head jerked to him, his brow furrowed.

_‘You just don’t know how to give up, do you?’_

_‘Come on, rockstar. Things like what?’_

Numbers said something, probably some curse word, but Wrench was feeling too sluggish to translate the gesticulation of his partner’s lips into words. Oh, those lips.

 _‘Like… us.’_ Numbers finally answered.

Wrench perked up at those words. _‘Us?’_

_‘Yes. I think even if we lived an infinite number of lives and made different choices each time, we would always end up together. It has to be that way.’_

Wrench shook his head, but the grin on his face persisted. _‘No, I don’t think that’s how it works. Maybe there’s a million worlds where we never even met.’_

Numbers pulled him down by the scruff of his neck to kiss him fiercely, and Wrench knew that he was trying to make a point. They broke apart for breath, and his partner looked him in the eye before signing: _‘I don’t think I’d want to live in a world like that.’_

Wrench decided that they could have pointless philosophical exchanges like that every night if they always gave Numbers that intense look in his eyes. And if they made him use his tongue _like that_.

 _‘But in that life you wouldn’t miss me in the first place, see?’_ Wrench pointed out. _‘You can’t miss what you’ve never known.’_

Numbers shook his head again and looked down at his hands. _‘I’m not sure about that. I think the feeling would always be there.’_

_‘What feeling?’_

This time, Numbers didn’t make Wrench press him for an answer. He could be charitable when he wanted to. _‘Like something was missing. It would never go away.’_

Wrench didn’t think it was possible for the pool of affection in his chest to grow even more. But when they were alone, sometimes Numbers would share with him a glimpse of himself that he never showed to anyone else, and Wrench would feel everything inside him expand, like his thoughts and emotions were spreading to accommodate this everlasting flame in his heart. Like the simple act of loving this man was making his own soul grow larger each day. Even if a good number of days, Wrench felt like he didn’t have a soul at all.

He wrapped his arms around his lover and pinned him down on the bed for an ardent, breathtaking kiss.

_‘Look at you getting all sentimental, you master of words.’_

And with that, the magic of the moment burst. Numbers glared at him and shook him off with a shove.

_‘Suck my dick, idiot.’_

Wrench smirked, feeling smug. _‘Already did.’_

Numbers rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, and his features transitioned from an annoyed frown to a neutral expression and finally to sadness.

 _‘We’re all just pawns to them.’_ Wrench said, reading his partner’s thoughts.

Numbers shrugged, looking defeated. _‘We already knew that.’_

_‘We’re still doing this, aren’t we?’_

_‘If it means living another day.’_

Wrench turned off the light, but they couldn’t fall asleep for a long while after that.


	2. Shed skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with a walking ghost.

They left at the crack of dawn, and it wasn’t even noon yet when they rolled into the picturesque city of Manassas. Viper had somehow managed to land a job in a local greenhouse, so they drove over there and parked at the end of the street to take a look at the place where he worked. They watched Viper coming in and out of the building, carrying bags of fertilizer and hosepipes and throwing dry ferns in the dumpster.

 _‘He looks like he really is in his element here’_ Wrench said.

_‘Couldn’t say. All I see is a guy living a fake life and doing a job that he’s way overqualified for. I mean, if you’re going to make a fresh start, at least try something a bit more fulfilling.’_

_‘Maybe he likes a simple life. The routine, the lack of surprises.’_

_‘Are we talking about the same guy?’_ Numbers said with a skeptic look. _‘No, it doesn’t sound right. But then again, for all we know maybe he’s growing opium poppies in his kitchen.’_

Wrench drummed his fingertips on the dashboard, peering out the window. _‘I think we should buy some flowers for the apartment. Do you like H-I-B-I-S-C-U-S?’_

Numbers turned on the ignition. _‘What I think is that we should leave before he sees us.’_

 _‘What’s the plan?’_ Wrench asked later, while they waited under a red light.

 _‘We hide in his apartment and wait for him to come back. That’s the plan.’_ According to their intel, Viper didn’t have a social life outside of work and he didn’t frequent bars. Sometimes he went to the library or shopped at local stores, but he did it erratically and seemingly on a whim so it wasn’t possible to predict a pattern for his whereabouts. No, ambushing him in his own home was the easiest course of action.

Wrench nodded. He trusted Numbers’ judgment completely. Numbers drove to the apartment complex where Viper lived, hoping against hope that he hadn’t made the wrong decision and his partner wouldn’t have to pay for his mistake if something went wrong. With everything the two of them had gone through, it would be infuriatingly stupid if they were to meet their end at the hands of a depressed fugitive because they weren’t careful enough.

His mind wandered to the memory of a job the three of them had been assigned together a couple of years prior. A simple meeting with another guns dealer to discuss business terms. Fargo had sent a sales representative to speak in their name, and to guard their spokesperson, they had sent an antisocial assassin, a deaf thug, and a neurotic hitman. What a picture. Someone at the office must have thrown a few darts at a chart and said ‘Yep, just send those three guys. What were their names again? Whatever. Nah, we don’t need more muscle for this, what could possibly go wrong? Now leave me alone, I have a lot of stomping to do on annoying twelve-year-olds on World of Warcraft.’ Numbers just wished he knew who it was so he could punch them in the face.

The guys they were meeting with weren’t exactly accommodating. ‘Leave your weapons at the door, please’ was the first thing they had said. Only an idiot would ever agree to that. But not complying meant that there would be no deal, and if the deal didn’t go through then Fargo would be very, very unhappy, so it wasn’t like they really had a choice. Not even five minutes into the meeting, Numbers knew that they had fallen into a trap. The guy in charge was nodding to everything that Fargo’s sales representative was saying, but he had this lopsided smile on his face, like he could barely contain himself from bursting into laughter. And his enforcers were looking at their boss like they were waiting for an order. Numbers still had a small backup Colt that they hadn’t detected when searching him, and he was pretty sure that Wrench had a hunting knife hidden in his boot, but they would be of little use unless they found a way to distract the guys first. Viper was sitting at the table with Fargo’s representative, looking bored. Numbers tried frantically to warn him about the situation with his eyes, but Viper barely gave him a look, and Numbers swore that he even winked at him.

They were going to die. They were going to die, and Viper had fucking winked at him.

“Mr. Fowler, if you allow me to interrupt,” Viper interjected suddenly. All faces in the room turned to look at him. “Do you mind if I have a drink?”

The man on the other side of the table raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed and his legs spread in a relaxed posture. He knew that he was in full control of the situation. “It’s ten in the morning,” he said, bemused by the request.

“I know, but these things make me a little nervous.”

“These things?” Fowler repeated.

“Yeah, you know, social things. They’re exhausting.” Viper reached inside his jacket and the goons immediately drew their guns at him. “Uh, it’s just whiskey. Come on guys, don’t be like that.” He said. He retrieved his hand very slowly, showing a metal flask with engravings. He shook it a little and the liquid inside made a sloshing sound.

Fowler raised a hand and his henchmen lowered their weapons, although their eyes remained fixed on Viper. “Well, if you must. But you probably shouldn’t do something like that again.” He still had that expression of baffled amusement, and was probably thinking something among the lines of _look at this dimwit, Fargo must be getting really desperate to keep guys like this one around_.

“Noted.” Viper uncapped the flask and smelled it before bringing it up to his lips. But before his mouth made contact with the bottle, he stopped and looked at the man opposite him. “Can I ask you a quick question, Mr. Fowler?”

“Sure.” _What the hell, let’s see what the clown has to say. He’s going to die with the others at the end of the meeting anyway._

“Are you familiar with the term ‘vitriolage’?”

And before the other man could respond, Viper threw the contents of the flask in his face. It wasn’t whiskey. It was sulfuric acid.

The screams were a powerful distraction indeed, and Numbers and Wrench didn’t waste a second to draw their own weapons and take care of the rest of the goons. Viper had dropped under the table to take cover and he crawled to take Fowler’s gun from his belt while the man was writhing in agony on the floor. He used it to dispatch the last goon right before he could put a bullet between Wrench’s eyes. Their sales representative wasn’t quick enough though. When it was over, merely seconds later, they saw him slumped in his chair with a bullet hole above his left ear.

Now the only sounds in the room were Fowler’s ear-piercing screams. Numbers glanced down to look at him for a moment, and he immediately wished he hadn’t. He would never, ever forget that image. What seconds ago had been a face was now a bloody mess of melting and sizzling tissue, like a balloon covered in pinkish and fuming goo. And the smell, there was nothing that could compare to that smell. He and Wrench could only watch in complete shock how the man’s skin dissolved like chewing gum in a microwave as he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Viper walked over to the nightmarish figure squirming on the floor, and put the man out of his misery with a bullet to the head. The screaming stopped. “I’m not a sadist” he said, like anyone had asked. And then he looked down at his own arm and noticed an angry, bubbling red welt on his skin. A bit of the acid had splashed him. That acid burn had to hurt like hell, but he didn’t even look bothered. Numbers had heard of adrenaline acting as a temporary pain blocker, but that reached a whole new level. Viper examined the wound with curiosity. “Oh” he said, “I need to rinse this with water right now.” And then he turned around and left the room, presumably to look for a faucet.

Wrench and Numbers exchanged a look, and dashed out the door simultaneously. They barely made it outside before puking their guts out by the side of the road. Numbers had been expecting a fight when walking into this room. What he hadn’t been expecting was a reenactment to the ending of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.

 _‘That is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.’_ Numbers signed when they were done. Wrench could only nod in agreement. And then he bent down to throw up some more.

Viper walked out of the building a while later. He had a piece of brown paisley fabric wrapped around his forearm, and Numbers realized that he had cut the shirt of one of the dead goons to bandage his wounds. “I just realized that I won’t be able to use that trick again, not once word of this gets around.” Viper said. He sounded unhappy. “You see, these things rely completely on the surprise factor, so… I’ll have to think of something new. My, my, what a pain the ass…”

Numbers gaped at him for a moment. And then he snapped. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! Who the fuck goes around carrying a flask of _acid_? Is this all just a game to you?”

Viper merely blinked at him. “I thought you’d be… happier.”

“I’m sorry, did you not see the bloody wreck we just left in that room? And that’s not mentioning the shit the bosses are going to give us because what was supposed to be a simple meeting ended in a fucking carnage! Why should I be happy about any of this fucking situation?”

“Because we’re alive.” Viper said, like it was obvious. He pointed at the building, where the dead bodies of their competitors were still on the floor. “Besides, they started it. Cheer up, Numbers.”

Back to the present, Numbers peered over the windshield and killed the ignition. The windows in Viper’s house had the curtains drawn and the lights were out. The street was quiet. Frank wouldn’t be back from work for a few more hours.

 _‘We have to do it quickly’_ Numbers said _. ‘The first priority is to render him immobile. He can’t see us coming. We can’t give him a chance to pull one of his tricks.’_

Wrench nodded, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. _‘Not even half a chance.’_

 _‘If you see him reach inside his pocket or something and you can’t get to him fast enough, get away. I mean it’_ he said before Wrench could protest _. ‘Don’t try to engage. Just get away from him before he can spray you with his magic powder shit. This isn’t worth walking away from here with a disfigured face. Or worse.’_

They picked the lock with ease. Before Wrench pushed the door open completely, Numbers put a hand on his chest to stop him and indicated for him to wait. He squeezed himself through the narrow gap, turned around, and inspected the doorframe. As he suspected, there was a piece of paper taped to the door hinge, in a way that it would break if the door opened all the way. Inconspicuous, but easy to detect to the observant eye if it had been disturbed or not. He beckoned to Wrench to come in and pointed at the paper in the doorframe.

 _‘That’s how he knows if someone has broken into the apartment’_ Numbers explained. _‘Old trick. If the paper is broken or has moved when he comes back, he knows someone’s entered.’_

 _‘I was expecting a rigged shotgun to blast our heads off when we walked in, to be honest.’_ Wrench said.

 _‘No, I think he saved that for the bedroom.’_ Numbers said, not being one hundred percent sarcastic in that statement.

It looked like Viper hadn’t had much time to decorate the place, because there were hardly any reflections of his personality scattered on the walls or the furniture. They found no opium poppies, sadly. Just a small Venus flytrap in a pot on the shelf. Numbers instructed Wrench not to touch anything. Knowing Viper, he wouldn’t put it past him to booby-trap his whole apartment. After all, a man’s house was his castle. Or burrow. Snake hole. Whatever. Did snakes even live in burrows? They inspected each room until they were sure there were no potential threats that could surprise them at the worst moment. Numbers inspected the couch carefully, and after finding nothing suspicious, he sat down. There was a copy of Henry James’ _The Turn of the Screw_ on the coffee table. Numbers picked it up and leafed through the pages while Wrench paced around the living room. His deaf partner was showing an unusual interest in the Venus flytrap. He poked it insistently, and looked disappointed when the plant only reacted by enclosing its butterfly-like flaps on his fingertip very slowly, like a lazy caress. Numbers rolled his eyes. Wrench must have thought that carnivorous plants in real life worked like the deadly abominations from _Jumanji_. Eventually, Wrench lost interest in the plant and pulled a chair by the window. He sat down with his gun on his lap to watch the street below through the gap in the curtains.

Numbers was halfway through the fifth chapter when Wrench motioned for him to look outside. _‘He’s coming up.’_

Numbers put the book down and pulled out his own gun. They hid inside the laundry room and waited for their Target to walk through the door. They left the door ajar just a tiny crack, enough to have a clear visual of the entrance and the living room without being detected.

Numbers heard the front door opening, and someone shuffling in the hallway for a moment. Viper walked into the living room and dropped his messenger bag on the floor. He removed his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack. He turned around and made a motion as if he was going to grab something, the TV remote maybe, but then he suddenly froze. Numbers followed Viper’s gaze and realized that he was staring at the book on the coffee table, which wasn’t in the same position that Viper had left it before leaving for work that morning.

“Shit” Viper said out loud.

Numbers didn’t wait any longer. He signaled to Wrench _‘Now!’_ and the two of them busted into the room. Numbers tackled Viper before the other man had time to turn around, and the two of them went down to the floor on a tangle of limbs. Viper resisted and tried to kick back, to dig his elbow in his gut, anything. Numbers wrapped his hands around the other hitman’s face and pulled back, applying as much pressure as he could in that awkward position. He screamed when Viper bit down on his fingers, but he didn’t let go. The twitching and squirming stopped abruptly when Wrench hit Viper in the head with the potted plant. He held out a hand and helped Numbers back to his feet.

 _‘Well, that was easy’_ Numbers commented, brushing dirt and small pieces of ceramic off his clothes.

 _‘I thought he would put more of a fight.’_ Wrench signed, looking a bit disappointed.

Numbers looked down at the unconscious man before him. He hadn’t tried to change his appearance one bit, not even something as simple as letting his hair grow or wearing glasses. He still dressed like a hipster too, all mandarin collar shirts and big cardigans. Numbers rolled him over with his foot and crouched down. He patted Viper up and down, looking for anything between the folds of clothes that shouldn’t be there. His fingers brushed a piece of plastic inside the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out carefully. It was a small syringe, sharp and ready to be injected. It was placed where Viper could reach it easily if someone tied his hands behind his back. Numbers held it between his thumb and forefinger and put it down on the coffee table gently. He also found another surprise under Viper’s shirt, secured in place between his shoulder blades with surgical tape. It was a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid. It looked like one of those explosive dye packs that banks attached to stacks of bills to catch thieves in case of robbery. Although Numbers was positive that this tiny device contained something much more harmful than ink, and it was set to explode in his face if he mishandled it just a little.

“Motherfuckin’ snake” he grumbled, pulling back the tape very carefully. He took the vial and, very slowly, placed it on the table as well.

 _‘Is that all?’_ Wrench asked.

 _‘I think so.’_ Numbers rubbed his forehead and sighed. _‘Let’s go.’_

 

Abandoned warehouses where one of Numbers’ favourite things in the whole world. They made his job so much easier. Few people appreciated the understated beauty of industrial estates, really. There was something poetic about the cubic buildings of sterile metal and concrete, especially at night when all the workers were away and the factories were bathed in the orange glow of streetlights. It was like stepping into a futuristic movie, like wandering through an alien city that was frozen in time.

There was no real reason for them to drag Viper down to that place, tie him up, and wait for him to wake up. They could have just easily shot him dead while he was unconscious and then disposed of the body somewhere. But it felt like a disservice to just kill the guy without at least one last word with him.

While they waited, Numbers took Viper’s wallet and pulled a dirty wooden chair from a pile of abandoned furniture in a corner. He dusted it off as much as he could with his gloved hand and sat down. He twirled Viper’s fake driver’s license in his fingers. His former colleague was now living under the identity of Francis Hobbs, 42, from Rhode Island. Francis Hobbs was a couple of years older than Viper’s real age, if Fargo’s documents regarding Frank Marsh were to be believed. The photo in the driving license showed a pale, dewy-eyed, ordinary looking fella. He looked like the kind of person who collected stamps and wrote customer reviews online for cleaning products. Everything about that ID was fake, but in a way, under all that fakeness, there was something genuine. You could almost see a glimpse of the sullen assassin who killed henchmen by forcing cyanide pills down their throats in the heavy-lidded eyes of the man in the photo. And the other way around, maybe the creepy killer Mr. Viper had always had a bit of the aloof Mr. Hobbs in him. Numbers knew from experience that the best counterfeit personas were the ones that had some elements of truth in them. Frank Marsh. Francis Hobbs. Mr. Viper. All of them were in part truth and in part lies, and below the surface there was a common thread that connected all of them, and tied them together in one common identity that existed beneath all the layers.

Numbers looked up when he heard Viper starting to stir. He made a sign to Wrench, who was rummaging through one of the bags as if there was anything else he needed to check. Viper woke up slowly, groaning and blinking at his surroundings. Eventually, his eyes seemed to focus and his gaze fell upon Wrench and Numbers standing before him. He sighed deeply and gave them a small and sad smile.

“So. This is it, huh?”

Numbers had a handful of opening lines prepared for this moment. A few intimidating phrases from his usual repertoire. But when he opened his mouth, he found that he was not in the mood to play his ‘twisted and terrifying’ interrogation routine. He just wanted it all to be over.

“Yeah. This is it.”

This was usually the part where the targets attempted to explain themselves or bargain with Numbers, before he killed any hope of escape by making his intentions very clear. Instead doing any of that, Viper immediately ignored Numbers and turned his attention to Wrench. “Hey, you grew sideburns. I like them. They suit you.”

Numbers scowled. He forced himself to stick to the script even if his prisoner refused to play by the rules. He snapped his fingers and Viper’s gaze returned to him. “Do you know why you’re here, _Mr. Hobbs_?”

The man in the chair shook his head. Numbers thought of this as a negative response at first, but then Viper spoke. “No, no, nonono. You’re doing it wrong.” His face was scrunched up, like it pained him to say it. “You don’t have much time, Numbers, you shouldn’t waste it with pointless questions. Try again.”

Any other day, Numbers would have knocked the guy’s teeth out for pulling that shit on him. But he was too perplexed to do anything but stare. This was not how he had pictured that scene playing out in his head at all. “Excuse me?”

Viper shook his head again. “I mean… what can I possibly tell you that you don’t already know?” He looked at them again, but now there was a total clarity in his eyes, like he was more lucid tan he’d ever been in years. “You know I never stole a cent from Fargo. They would have told you otherwise, that's always the first thing they tell you. All the money I took with me, it was money I earned doing their dirty work, just like you. And I never revealed any secrets about the syndicate to anyone, okay? I'm not a fucking idiot, I know it wouldn't have made my life any easier in the long run. You know that, I know that. I thought that if I didn't steal from them like all those other idiots, Fargo might give me a pass. Because that's the only thing they care about, right? Always the fucking money. Sure, they'd be pretty pissed for a while, but I thought eventually they'd forget about me. I said to myself, hey, surely they have bigger problems to worry about, I might be able to start a new life somewhere. But it’s not enough for them to control you. To control how much you know, who you kill, how much money you get. No, they want to own _everything_ you have. Your past, your identity, your mind, your very soul. It all belongs to Fargo. So when you try to take back the only thing that’s yours and only yours, your free will, oh no, they can’t have that, so they erase you from existence. I was so naïve. Naïve, naïve, naïve…”

Viper was muttering to himself again. Numbers looked at Wrench, a silent plea for help, but his partner was just as dumbfounded as he was. He took a deep breath. _Stick to the script. Stick to the script and you’ll be out of here soon._

“Hey. Hey! Look at me, Francis!” his captive didn’t meet his request, but at least the mumbling stopped. “Why, Francis?”

Numbers wanted to think that his voice sounded commanding enough to bring his prisoner back from his episode, or whatever it was. But it was more likely his use of the guy’s real name that made it through into Viper’s foggy mind.

“Why… what?”

Many questions dashed past his mind in that moment. _Why didn’t you try to kill us when you realized we were in your home? Why didn’t you just leave the country? Why are you such a fucking weirdo?_ In the end he settled for: “Why Manassas?”

Viper smiled sheepishly. “I tossed a coin. Heads, I go west. Tails, I go east. I got tails. After I passed Charleston, I kept tossing a coin every time I reached a new town to decide whether I would stay there or keep driving.”

How arbitrary, Numbers thought. A different result in just one of the coin tosses and they might not be having that conversation at all. “That… is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

His captive smirked. “You should try giving up control every once in a while, Numbers. You know, leaving things up to chance. Feels really liberating.”

“Yeah, sure, I think I’ll pass.” Numbers looked down at the driver’s license for a second. There was another question that had been bugging him for a while. “Why leave in the first place? You weren’t doing so badly in Fargo. Why throw it all away all of a sudden?”

Viper looked disappointed at the question, almost angry even. “You still don’t get it, do you? You don’t just wake up one day and decide to fake your own death and move a thousand miles away. It starts as an idea, a simple thought. But give it months and months, and that thought slowly expands until it infects your whole brain and you can’t think of anything else.”

“No, actually, I get that” Numbers interrupted impatiently. “What I want to know is when exactly it went from an idle thought to an actual plan that you began to set in motion.”

“You mean, like, when was the tipping point for me?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

Viper sighed. “You guys remember when Dunbar set a building on fire during a hit?”

Numbers nodded. “Yeah. I heard about it. It was a huge load of shit for the syndicate.”

“You bet. Two bystanders died in that fire, there was a big media buzz… basically everything that the bosses hate more than anything. Well, the only witness was one of the firefighters who first responded to the call. He saw Dunbar leaving through a window as he was busting through the door to rescue the victims, but he didn’t think much of it at the time because, well, he was trying to put out a fire. But later, when it came up during the investigation that the fire might have been intentional, the firefighter remembered that he’d seen someone exiting the building right before things got real bad inside. He said he’d gotten a pretty good look at the suspect, so they asked him to ID him. And, naturally, Fargo sent me to, ahem, ‘persuade’ the firefighter to retract his statement. Or silence him forever.”

Numbers glanced back at Wrench for a second. He wasn’t sure how much of the story his partner was getting –it was hard enough to read lips under normal circumstances, more so in a dark room and from six feet away. But Wrench was staring at Viper with intensity, his arms crossed in a defensive stance.

“So I took that firefighter to a place just like this one” Viper continued, looking around at the rusty beams and corrugated metal walls of the warehouse. “First I tried to convince him the easy way. ‘This is the best option for you, do this and you’ll live’. He wouldn’t cave. So I moved on to threats. ‘I could just kill you, it makes no difference to me, just do what I say and don’t piss me off’. But the guy was persistent. He said that he had to tell the truth. That you have to stand by your principles, like he was fucking Thomas More or some shit. He repeated that he’d seen Dunbar in the burning building, and that was the truth, and nothing I said or did would change that. And then he looked at me, and he said: ‘ _do whatever you have to do’_. And you know, it was the way he said it, like he was _forgiving_ me, and I, and I just… I didn’t know what to do with that, so I got angry. It was so strange… I hadn’t been angry about anything in years. I didn’t even recognize the feeling at first. It was very confusing and scary. But for some reason, this man who didn’t know me at all managed to get under my skin. He made me see things about myself that I didn’t want to see. That’s the truth. He made me cross a line. I’d been tiptoeing that line for a while by then, but he shoved me and sent me flying a hundred yards past that line, until I couldn’t even see the line anymore. It was like seeing yourself in the mirror for the first time in years. I didn’t like what I saw. So I felt angry, and confused, and scared. And then I shot him.”

Numbers shifted in his seat involuntarily, and the chair creaked under his weight. He felt his gun holster rubbing against his armpit under his coat, and he suddenly itched to take it off to get rid of that restricting sensation.

“After that, I guess I got rid of the body and went back home. But to be honest, I don’t remember anything from the days that followed. It’s all blurry, like it was all a dream. Like I spent a whole week sleepwalking. And when I woke up, I knew that I had to leave Fargo. Because if I didn’t, I knew I was going to become like one of them. A ghoul.”

Numbers was sure he’d heard wrong. “A what?”

“A thing with no soul that preys on the living and feeds on death and corruption. A creature of the dark.”

Numbers jerked to his feet and threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Viper clearly had spent too much time living inside his own head, and he didn’t have the time to listen to the ramblings of a loony. He was starting to regret waking him up instead of killing him the moment Wrench had clocked him. But before he could say anything, Viper went on.

“You see, Mr. Numbers, people like us… It’s like we live in an alternate reality.” A part of Numbers was too intrigued by the display of bizarreness he was witnessing, so he allowed the man to keep talking. “There’s us, the thieves, the mobsters, the dealers, the enforcers. We dwell in a parallel world, or maybe a world that’s underneath the real one, a wicked and sinister place where the criminals do their business away from the general population. And then there’s the rest of the world. All the ordinary people with their ordinary problems, and we’re watching them through a prism. Like there’s a glass wall standing between us and them. And we see them going about their day, talking about mundane things, but we can’t relate to them, we can’t get close to them, because we’re too far gone, we’ve done things that they couldn’t possibly understand, they couldn’t possibly understand how our world works, so now we’re on the other side of that glass and we can’t go back again. And when you look at them, at the ordinary people, you don’t see people, you only see targets. But here’s the thing, if you keep seeing the whole world that way for too long… it fucks you up. It fucks with your brain, and then you know you’re done. Because there’s no hope left.”

A heavy silence fell upon them. Viper looked at Numbers like he was waiting for his opinion on the matter. Numbers was more than happy to oblige. He sat down again slowly, smoothing out the creases of his pleated pants.

“Wow. You should be giving conferences at TED Talks.”

“Mock me all you want. I know you’ll understand one day, even though you don’t see it yet.”

“Oh, yeah? And what makes you so sure of that?”

Viper leaned forward as much as his binds let him, and deep shadows formed over his eyes under the vertical stream of light from above. “Because, Mr. Numbers, one day you’ll find yourself in my position, and you will remember this conversation.”

The words felt like a bucket of ice water, and for a moment, Numbers didn’t know what to say. His mouth had gone dry, so he swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat. Flustered, he rose to his feet and turned his back on their prisoner for a moment to speak with his partner. Wrench’s usual scowl that he adopted when they were on a job was cracking at the edges, revealing a peek of the conflicted emotions plaguing him.

 _‘How much of that did you understand?’_ Numbers asked. _‘Do you need me to give you a summary?’_

 _‘I got the gist of it’_ Wrench replied.

_‘This was a stupid idea. He’s clearly gone completely nuts. We’re wasting our time here.’_

_‘I don’t know. I think he’s onto something.’_ Wrench said. Numbers wanted to scream at him.

_‘He’s just trying to mess with our heads! You know him! You know that’s what he does!’_

Wrench squinted his eyes at him, the way he did when he caught Numbers contradicting himself during an argument and he couldn’t resist the opportunity to throw it in his face. _‘Which one is it? Is he crazy or is he actually very sane and just trying to manipulate you? He can’t be both at the same time.’_

Numbers gave his partner an incredulous look. _‘Fuck you. Whose side are you on here?’_

_‘At least hear him out! We have nothing to lose by listening to him. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.’_

“Ugh, fine! Fine!” Numbers shouted, raising his hands to his head. “Damn it.” He turned his back on Wrench and glared at their captive.

“You know, I’m glad that it was you two that they sent after me.” Viper said out of the blue. “You’re the only ones that actually listen. The only ones that get it.”

“Shut up.” Numbers ordered. To his surprise, Viper actually did as he was told. “Okay, I have to say it. I have met a lot of wackos in this job. But you, Frank Marsh, are the craziest motherfucker I’ve ever had the chance of rubbing shoulders with.”

Viper smiled proudly. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day, comrade.”

“I’m not your comrade” Numbers said with gritted teeth.

The smile melted away. “I guess you’re not.” There was a pause, and then, with a serious voice, he added “Do whatever you have to do.”

Numbers could feel Wrench’s eyes on his back. Viper was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his final answer. For a moment, Numbers felt like he was the one under the spotlight. Like it was him strapped to that chair, being scrutinized and judged.

“Shut up” Numbers repeated, this time barely more than a whisper. He pulled out a gun from the inside of his coat and made sure that Viper could see it clearly. “Just shut up. You know how this ends.”

He urged himself to stay composed and not let an inch of his emotions to be shown on his face. Without a word, he raised his gun and pointed it directly at Viper’s head. He felt Wrench shifting behind him.

But Viper wasn’t looking at the gun, he was looking at him.

“You always look so sad, Numbers” he said with something like pity. “Why didn’t I notice before?”

The rain was hammering on the tin roof of the warehouse like the heavens were trying to knock down the building and crush them with it. The light bulb flickered for a second, casting the room in semi-darkness momentarily, and Numbers thought of high bridges over troubled waters and cats inside boxes. He thought of the idea that in the darkness, he could pretend that Viper wasn’t even there in the room with them, that he was and was not tied to that chair at the same time.

 

The clock on the dashboard read 03:01 AM. The witching hour. The rain had subsided, but now they were surrounded by a thick white fog that absorbed the front lights of the car like a black sponge. They would have to drive extra carefully on the ride back. They sat in the car in silence for a few minutes, until Wrench broke the stillness of the moment by reaching down and turning the key on the ignition.

“Wait” Numbers said out loud, putting a hand on his partner’s arm. Wrench turned to look at him. _‘Let’s not talk about this ever again.’_

Wrench nodded slowly. Numbers thought that was all that there was left to say, but then Wrench closed the distance that separated them and gave him a quick kiss. Numbers blinked. He thought that maybe he was supposed to reciprocate the gesture, whatever the intention behind it may be. Reassurance? Praise? Apology? It was late enough or early enough that it could be any of those things. His hand was still on his companion’s arm. He squeezed it briefly but firmly, and leaned back in his seat, looking away. Wrench started the car and they took off, engulfed by ash-grey mist.

 

Screech, screech, screech. The rhythmic noise of the windshield wipers juxtaposed nicely the chaotic spattering of the raindrops against the hood of the car. The inside of the vehicle was so quiet that these sounds were amplified, encasing the metal and glass walls in an oddly comforting drum. The man behind the steering wheel observed the dark street in front of him with serenity. He had the calm demeanor of a friendly neighborhood watchman but the appearance of an outsider.

A man appeared from behind a corner, pulling the nape of his coat over his head in a vain attempt to shield himself from the rain. He jogged towards the car, not running, but clearly not wanting to stay in that street much longer. The man inside the car knew that it wasn’t the terrible weather what was driving him off. The soaked man opened the passenger door and entered the car without a word of greeting.

“Good evening, Mr. Ibsen” the owner of the car said. “I’m sorry I made you come all the way over here, but I thought it was safer this way.”

“Yeah, well, you thought right” Ibsen said, rubbing his cold hands.

“Did you manage to get it?”

“Yep. It’s all here.” Ibsen reached inside his coat and pulled a manila folder, which miraculously did not have a single drop of water on it. “I hope that’s all you need from me, because no amount of money will convince me to dig any deeper.”

“Okay. I respect that.”

“I mean, my clients usually just want photographic evidence of their spouses cheating on them or their employees faking an illness to get off work. But this…” he looked out the window nervously for a moment, and then he hissed “Do you have the faintest idea what kind of people these guys are?”

“In a general sense.”

“Well, I didn’t, not when I first took the job. You’re not a terribly honest client.”

“It’s just photos. Relax.” The man opened the folder and started digging through the pictures inside. “If you’re as good as you advertise, I bet none of them even noticed.”

“Whatever. I’m just going to go back home and forget about all of this. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that you agreed to make the full payment in advance, but this sorta thing is way out of my league. I’m not craving an adrenaline rush so please don’t contact me ever a– Hey, what’s wrong?” Ibsen asked when he noticed that his companion had fallen silent. The other man was holding one of the photos in front of his eyes, examining it under the light of the car. His eyes were fixed in the black and white portrait, wide in shock like he was seeing a ghost.

“Are you okay?” Ibsen asked gently.

The man seemed to snap out of his trance in a second. He put the picture down and shook his head.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he laughed, like it was a joke that only he understood. “Those are some mighty fine plastic surgeons!”

Ibsen almost asked the man what the hell he was talking about. But then he thought better about it.


	3. Corrosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two debt collectors find more than they expected.

For Numbers, going to the music store was one of the few pastimes that almost made him feel like a normal person. In these small breaks he took for himself, surrounded by shelves of CDs and second-hand turntables, he could forget for a moment that the next day he was supposed to bury the dead body of a public contractor in concrete. He never tried to make conversation with the other customers, and his interactions with the employees were kept to the bare minimum, but he liked to watch the other people in the store. Sometimes Wrench would come with him. His partner liked to look at the artwork on the album covers or point out bands with ridiculous names or particularly witty album titles. Wrench had a few personal favorites that he’d swayed Numbers into buying simply because the cover or the title were too clever or funny, even though he had no idea what they sounded like. Some of those albums Numbers genuinely enjoyed listening to, like _Come On Die Young_ , _You Can Tune a Piano but You Can't Tuna Fish_ , or that album by the singer-songwriter chick whose title was an entire paragraph. But judging from the amount of shitty hard rock and nu-metal CDs with terrible puns as titles and offensive artwork that were collecting dust in a box in the closet, maybe Numbers should learn to say no to his partner more often.

Who was he kidding. The concept of saying ‘no’ to Wrench was alien to him.

Today he was alone in the store. Wrench had claimed to be too tired to step outside. There was nothing on TV except awful talk shows and Numbers knew that if he tried to entertain himself disassembling and reassembling his guns one more time he was going to get a headache. Besides, he hadn’t slept all that well the night before and he was feeling restless and snappy. Lately, that had been happening to him more often than he would be willing to admit.

He scanned the place with analyzing eyes as he pretended to read the back of a Brian Eno album. There were only other three customers in the store, so it was a slow day. Or maybe it was actually packed, considering how album sales had been plummeting over the last few years. A college-age boy with a huge black backpack was shuffling through the bargain bin, humming. A middle aged man with a fur cap and reading glasses was looking very busy back at the Opera section. A girl with combat boots and blue streaks in her hair was listening to a Pretenders record through a pair of headphones connected to one of the turntables. Her eyes were closed and she was swaying slowly to the music, lost in her own world. The way she moved was alluring, hypnotic. It made you want to be part of what she was experiencing.

Numbers’ mind was on autopilot due to fatigue and the soothing acoustic music that was playing on the speakers. When he got like that, his hitman training kicked in and his subconscious started analyzing the layout of the room and all the variables. He started running through possible scenarios in his mind in case things went awry. Planning up ways to eliminate possible threats and escape. Opera Fan was the most likely of the three to conceal carry. But judging from the way he squinted he probably didn’t have very good aim, and also wouldn’t react too quickly. College Kid was tall and in good physical shape, but he looked like he’d never been in a real fight in his life, so probably harmless. Numbers shouldn’t underestimate any potential danger though. And lastly, Punk Girl, who was still doing her thing by the turntables. Numbers eyed her up. Oblivious. She might not even realize that something was going on until the sound of a gunshot broke through her headphones. Wouldn’t be hard to overpower her and break her neck before she ran for the door if it came to it.

_You don’t see people, you only see targets_

What the hell?

Numbers shook his head, willing away all thoughts about murdering his fellow music lovers. The lack of sleep was starting to mess with his head, he thought. He just needed a nap. He looked down at the CD he had picked from the racks at some point. Wilco. He hated that band. Why on earth had he picked it up? He put it down and tried to find something more palatable. Thank god, there was some King Crimson buried under all the other garbage.

The cashier, a plump young man with a blonde ponytail and a goatee, looked up from his magazine when he approached his desk. He gave Numbers a toothed smile. Numbers noticed absentmindedly that he had lost some weight since the last time, and his hair looked neater. Maybe he was dating someone. But then again, what did he care.

“Great choice, man” the clerk said in appreciation, ringing up the CD through the bar scanner. “I’ve seen you come around a few times, you have a very eclectic taste.”

Numbers’ hand froze while reaching for his wallet. That reaction was an automatic response to the realization that someone had recognized his face. It was too deeply ingrained in him.

“What?” His brain was already looking for escape points in the store. _Calm down. It’s just this form of social interaction known as small talk. You must have heard of it._

“Hey, I almost forgot! You have to check this out, man!” The clerk said with overbearing excitement. He pulled a cardboard box from underneath his desk and dropped it on the counter. Numbers almost jumped before he realized that it only contained a bunch of old vinyls. “A guy came over the other day and sold me his entire Dire Straits collection” the man explained, talking fast. “Can you believe that? I think he really needed the cash. I haven’t started cataloguing them yet, but since you’re here, I thought you might be interested. I just think they should belong to someone who really appreciates them, ya know?”

“Uh, okay. Listen, I’m in a hurry, so…”

“You like Dire Straits, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Seriously, look at this!” the clerk said, holding up one of the albums “First issue, the sleeve’s still in perfect condition. This is an opportunity that no collector can pass on!”

“Look, buddy…” Numbers’ hand left the inside of his coat sans wallet (and sans gun). “I changed my mind. I don’t feel like buying anything today. Bye.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the store.

“Hey, wait! We haven’t even discussed prices yet, dude!”

Numbers walked down the street until he was a few blocks away and then he stopped to take a deep breath. He thought that he had this whole ‘looking inconspicuous and forgettable’ thing down. But apparently he didn’t, because the employee at the store had noticed his presence enough times to develop a sense of familiarity with him in his mind. Enough to remember his musical tastes, for God’s sake. But it wasn’t just that. It was the whole attitude. The alien feeling of a total stranger going out of their way to do something nice for him, to _bond_ with him. Numbers had spent the better part of his life living as this nameless, faceless man that came out of nowhere and left without a trace. Being a regular customer at the bar so the barman recognizes your face and maybe knows your usual order was one thing. But when you had a random clerk getting all buddy-buddy with you, it was time to cut it off. Next thing he knew, the guy would be inviting Numbers to sci-fi movie night with his friends and asking him if he wanted to join his garage rock band.

Numbers sighed. _Looks like I need to find a new music store. Great._

Having his phone start to go buzzing in his pocket at that precise moment seemed like an absurd coincidence, but he was willing to welcome any distraction currently. It was a message from the syndicate. Well, well, just what he needed to steady his anxious mood. Something to focus on.

 

Wrench was so engrossed in his novel that he didn’t notice his partner walk in through the door. He was lounging on the couch, indulging in a small dose of medieval intrigue and swordfights. He’d been waiting since the last book in the series to learn about the fate of Davos Seaworth after the battle of the Blackwater and he didn’t want to be bothered.

He was rudely pulled back from the coast of Westeros when a hand reached out from behind the couch and snatched the book from his hands. Wrench whipped around and glared at his partner.

_‘Get up, we have a job’_ Numbers signed after putting down the book on the coffee table. _‘Damn, that brick is heavy. Who writes that shit?’_

Wrench knew it was useless to complain, but he pouted visibly as he went over to the coat hanger to retrieve his jacket. Numbers had a dark blue duffel bag at his feet. It was the bag were they kept rope, zip ties, and other ‘necessities’, so he knew the nature of the job right away.

_‘Who’s the loser this time?’_ He asked.

_‘Zapper’_ Numbers answered. Wrench raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. _‘You don’t look surprised.’_

_‘Are_ you _surprised that Zapper finally pissed off someone he shouldn’t have pissed?’_ Wrench said. He took the bag and carried it over his shoulder.

_‘Not really. Never liked the douche.’_ Numbers said. He held the front door open for him. Right before Wrench walked out, Numbers stopped him, like something had just occurred to him. _‘On second thought, take the book with you. You can use it to knock the guy out if we run out of bullets.’_

Wrench showed his appreciation for his partner’s sense of humor by giving him the middle finger.

 

Mr. Zapper was the kind of guy who left an impression on people. When he entered a place, he seemed to take over the whole room with his presence. He was tall –not as tall as Wrench, but still pretty tall– and broad-shouldered. He had a strong jawline and perfectly straight teeth. And most of all, he had charm. He had a way with words to convince people to do things for him. One could say that someone like that wouldn’t be suitable to work for the mob though. Too striking, with a face too easy to remember when giving a description to the police. But in truth, Zapper’s appeal had too many advantages to simply overlook him. Business negotiations were a walk in the park for him. And as for intel work… well, he always found a way to make people open up to him and tell him things. How could anyone say no to that face and that honeyed voice? Apparently Zapper had learned a lot from being a theatre major in college. He’d just given up his dreams of becoming a lauded thespian to pursue less conventional career choices. It couldn’t be denied, the guy oozed charisma. Numbers hated his guts.

The nickname ‘Zapper’ was also related to his experience as a former drama student. He liked to play characters. When the syndicate had a problem they needed to get rid of, Zapper had a very peculiar way to deal with it. He wasn’t exactly a fan of the usual ‘hit and ambush’ method, his way was a bit more elaborate. He would pretend to be someone else to lure the target into his trap. Sometimes he impersonated other people over the phone. Sometimes he used disguises. Like a bug zapper attracting insects to its light before electrocuting them. It was devious and merciless.

Whatever he did, Fargo paid him a good salary for it, because he had a nice house. Nothing too fancy, but he could afford a cozy bungalow in the woods while Wrench and Numbers still lived in an apartment with stains on the ceiling. The only neighbors lived in a house about half a mile away. Wrench and Numbers could see their rooftop beyond the trees, but didn’t think the neighbors would be a problem. The woodland surrounding Zapper’s house and the distance gave them enough privacy.

_‘What if he’s not home?’_ Wrench asked after parking the car out of sight of the windows of the house.

_‘Then we wait inside until he comes back. I’m not chasing him around the whole county.’_

They walked through the trees to the back side of the house, treading carefully on late December snow. Numbers crossed the backyard quietly and pressed his back tightly against the house to not be spotted from any of the windows. Wrench followed and emulated his movements. Graceful and nimble as a night cat, Numbers inched towards the back door. He’d already removed his scarf and tied it around his hand, ready to break the glass and break inside the house. Turned out, he didn’t need to. Before his partner started their gig with some casual vandalism, Wrench tried the handle, just in case. They were both surprised when the door opened effortlessly.

_‘I can’t believe it’_ Numbers signed. _‘He didn’t even lock the fucking door.’_

_‘He’s not expecting us. Good.’_

_‘I thought he was smarter.’_

Particles of dust floated in the sunbeams that came in through the windows as they made their way through the kitchen and into the living room. Numbers held out a finger in warning, like he’d heard something, and pulled out his gun. Wrench did the same. His fingers were itching inside his leather gloves with the knowledge that the situation could get out of control in a matter of seconds. Numbers walked over to a door that could only lead to the basement. He listened for a couple of seconds, his brow furrowed in concentration.

_‘He’s down there. Let’s wait here until he comes up the stairs.’_

They positioned themselves on each side of the door, plastered against the wall. Numbers listened and gave a thumbs-up, signaling that Zapper was coming. Wrench nodded, indicating that he was ready.

The basement door opened, and out walked Zapper, carrying a large folded tarp. The hallway was dark and they were very still, so he passed right by them without even noticing their presence. For a moment Wrench wondered how long they could just stand there and watch Zapper do whatever he did when he was on his own before he realized there were other people in his house. Watching how people acted when they thought they were alone could get interesting. But they weren’t here for that. Numbers nodded, and they moved simultaneously. Zapper turned around, but it was too late. They were flanking him from both sides, and he had no weapons on him. Numbers dove in first, initiating their tried and tested choreography of Numbers distracting the target with a frontal attack to give Wrench ample room to pistol-whip them until they stopped moving. But then Zapper made a swift movement, and suddenly Wrench could only see blue. He angrily tossed the tarp off his head and jumped into the fray.

Numbers pulled back, gently brushing his recently acquired black eye with a pained grimace. He gave the unconscious figure on the floor a good kick. _‘Fucking asshole elbowed me in the face.’_

_‘Are you bleeding?’_ Wrench asked. It was never a good idea to leave your DNA scattered all over the place.

_‘No, just a bruised ego mostly. Help me out with this.’_

Numbers pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket and they used it to tie up Zapper’s hands and ankles. They couldn’t kill the man right away. Zapper hadn’t just skimmed a couple thousand from Fargo here and there, he’d also stolen an accounting book from the office. It didn’t contain incriminating information per se, but the bosses didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. Their orders were to find the ledger first and then cap the thief. Numbers instructed Wrench to watch Zapper while he searched the house.

While Numbers had fun making a mess of the place upstairs, Wrench dragged Zapper to the living room and dropped him in the middle of the Persian carpet. He sat down on an armchair, watching closely the rise and fall of Zapper’s chest. He didn’t expect the guy to wake up for a while, but you never knew with those things. He shifted in the chair, feeling an unexpected shiver run down his body. The fireplace was out and the room was unusually cold, like Zapper didn’t even turn on the heating during most of the day. It also smelled faintly of cleaning products, the kind of smell that built up from frequent use and insufficient ventilation. He noticed there was a Felix the Cat clock hanging on the wall. Its plastic eyes stared at Wrench, swinging left and right with the ticking of time. The cat was a witness of the crime being committed in the house under his surveillance, and the sardonic smile painted on his face with acrylic paint looked like he was giving them permission to carry on. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. Zapper was still unconscious. Felix the Cat was still watching with mild amusement. The smell of disinfectant was really starting to bother Wrench now.

Something didn’t feel right in that house.

Numbers came down the stairs then, looking rather pissed off. He had a notepad in his hand, which he tossed onto Wrench’s hands.

_‘This is all I could find. It was in his desk, but I don’t think it is what we’re looking for.’_ Numbers said.

Wrench opened it, expecting lists of names and sums, but instead he found pages of strange verses in neat handwriting.

_I COULDN’T FIND MY SOUL_

_AND BURIED HOPE IN THE GROUND_

_WE’RE OUT OF LEMONS_

The rest of it was more of the same. Numbers pointed at the words on the page insistently, perched on the armrest of the chair. _‘Seriously, what the fuck is this shit?’_

_‘I think they’re H-A-I-K-U-S’_ Wrench said. He only got a confused look in return, so he explained, _‘It’s a type of poem.’_

_‘It doesn’t even R-H-Y-M-E.’_

_‘That’s not the point.’_

Numbers rolled his eyes, as if to say ‘whatever’. ‘ _I’ll keep looking.’_

_‘We’re running late. Let me help you.’_

_‘What about him?’_ Numbers signed, pointing at Zapper.

_‘We’ll keep him close by. Come on, I think we should look in the basement.’_

They dragged Zapper to the basement door, and left them at the top of the stairs with the door open so they would see it if he woke up. They didn’t find what they were looking for in that room, either. They were running out of time, which meant that they’d have to interrogate Zapper about the ledger if they couldn’t find it themselves. Numbers looked irritated. He was probably hoping that they could skip that part and just be done with this thing. The most interesting thing they found was a chest with an array of crutches, arm slings, and wigs. Numbers examined one particularly ugly wig, running his fingers through the synthetic hair. Wrench picked up an arm cast. It was cut in half, with the plaster cracking at the edges, so it had been used and then removed. Words of encouragement were written all over it with colorful markers, things like _GET WELL SOON!_ , _HANG IN THERE OLD SPORT_ , and _DON’T DRINK AND ROLLERBLADE_. Wrench showed it to Numbers with raised eyebrows. His partner looked at the plaster cast and the other junk tossed into the chest.

“Dude, I don’t want to know” Numbers said. He reached out and closed down the chest.

While Numbers looked through a bunch of cardboards boxes full of old magazines, Wrench browsed the shelves of canned food on the walls. It would take them hours to sort through all of the junk in the basement, hours they didn’t have. Wrench scanned the rows of vacuum-sealed jars and sighed. He saw Numbers signing of the corner of his eye, but something behind the poached pears and the pickles caught his eye. He wrapped his gloved hands around the legs of the shelf and started pulling.

Numbers put a hand on his arm to draw his attention. _‘What are you doing? I said we need to go.’_

_‘There’s something behind this shelf.’_

_‘Who cares? We don’t have time. We still have to interrogate Mr. Amateur Poet and get rid of him. We don’t have much daylight left.’_

Wrench ignored him and carried on pulling the shelf off the wall. Numbers flailed his arms, probably calling him a stubborn idiot or something like that. The flailing stopped abruptly when the shelf was pushed out of the way and a hidden door was revealed.

_‘What’s that doing here?’_ Wrench asked.

_‘Maybe it’s a panic room.’_ Numbers said.

Wrench shook his head. _‘The lock’s on the outside.’_

_‘So?’_

_‘Panic rooms don’t lock from the outside. That would defeat the purpose, don’t you think?’_

_‘I guess?’_ Numbers added a shrug and a frown at the end of the sentence, making it look like a question.

Wrench tried the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. Before he could twist it, Numbers grabbed his wrist. They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Numbers had gone completely serious all of a sudden. He looked uneasy. Wrench felt a sense of dread wash over him, like the air in the room had changed. Something _definitively_ wasn’t right with that place.

_‘I’m not sure I want to see what’s behind that door.’_ Numbers signed.

Wrench turned away, saying nothing. He gripped the doorknob and opened the door very slowly.

The room was dark and his eyes took a while to adjust to the shadows. He stepped inside. The light adjusted for a few more seconds, and his eyes fell upon a shape in the corner. He felt his blood rushing in his ears and his palms go sweaty. For a moment, he just stood there and stared as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.

In the back of the room, there was a small bed pushed against the wall in the corner. A girl, who judging by her skinny frame must have been in her late teens or early twenties, was lying on top of the sheets. She was dead. Her skin had a bluish tinge and her long tangled hair covered her face. She was only wearing underwear and a white camisole that was covered in dried blood. The stab marks on her torso were still visible through the congealed blood, narrow and elliptical with pointy tips, like leeches feasting on her dead body. Some of the stabs were short and straight, and some were longer and curved like red crescent moons. The smell of death in there was the strongest Wrench had ever experienced.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a corpse, not by far. But never like this. This was pure cruelty, staged in a macabre altar like a virgin sacrificed to the gods of ancient times. Every corner of that dark room reeked of pure, unadulterated hatred. Wrench had seen and done plenty of bad things, but this was a level of _evil_ that terrified even a killer like him. He was looking at a kind of depravity unspeakable even to the likes of him. There were no windows. The door was locked from the outside. The more he looked, the more his mind wandered, starting to put the pieces together and filling in the blanks and–

Wrench turned around, not wanting to see anymore. His heart was beating a hundred miles per hour.

His partner was standing in the doorway, looking at the corpse with shock. He raised his hands to his head and shouted something that Wrench couldn’t read. Then he stormed out of the room looking like he wanted to punch something. Wrench turned his gaze back on the girl, feeling his stomach churning. He suppressed the nausea and followed Numbers.

He found his partner pacing up and down the hallway, running his hands through his hair and spitting out a few words, mostly ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ from what Wrench could catch on. Zapper was still unconscious on the floor. Wrench took a single look at him and felt his blood boiling.

_‘What the fuck do we do now?’_ Numbers asked when he had calmed himself down enough to sign coherently.

Wrench balled his hands into fists. Instead of answering, he loomed over Zapper with a deathly glare. He reached inside his jacket and produced a serrated knife.

Realizing his intentions, Numbers dashed over to him and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t!”

Wrench’s nostrils flared. His hands were shaking. He had to do it. He wanted to carve out this bastard’s organs one by one while he was still breathing, but Numbers was standing in his way. He started trembling all over and his vision blurred at the edges. He felt his partner’s hands steadying him. His grip loosened and the knife fell to the floor.

_‘We’ll deal with him later, I promise’_ Numbers signed, looking him in the eye _. ‘But not here.’_

Wrench nodded, taking deep breaths.

_‘How long do you think she’s been dead?’_ Numbers asked.

Wrench tried to take a guess based on the coloration on the girl’s skin. He felt sick thinking about it. _‘Not sure. I’d say a day or two, tops. Although it’s really cold down there, so maybe longer.’_ One or two days. If only they’d just come for Zapper sooner, maybe… _‘We can’t just leave her there.’_

Numbers’ eyes softened, reflecting sadness. _‘I know.’_

_‘What are we going to do?’_

His partner glanced at Zapper briefly. There was pure contempt showing on his face. _‘I’m going to call Fargo. They’ll know what to do.’_

Wrench thought about the implications of such action and his eyes widened with realization. _‘No!’_

_‘Why not? Do you have a better idea?’_

_‘They’ll just tell you to dispose of her body just like with him!’_

_‘And isn’t that exactly what we should do? We can’t exactly call 911 in this situation!’_

_‘I’m not burying that girl in the middle of nowhere! That’s like killing her ourselves! I’m not taking part in… in… this!’_

Numbers was rendered speechless for a moment. “Are. You. Fucking. Serious.”

They stared at each other. Wrench could see the tension cursing through his partner by the way he stood, the same tension that he was feeling down to every cell in his body. Just a few hours prior, they had been joking and bantering like any other day. He wished he’d fallen asleep on the couch and all of this was a nightmare. It was too surreal.

Wrench pointed to the basement door.

_‘I’m not touching the girl. I’m not going to do it.’_ That was his final word.

Numbers turned his back on him, probably to resist the urge to hit him. He paced down the hallway some more and came back, resolute to take control of the situation.

_‘Zapper is going to wake up any moment now. We have to take care of him first.’_

_‘And then what?’_ Wrench signed.

“I DON’T KNOW! Let me think!”

So they were at a stalemate. Wrench looked out the window. That side of the house was facing down a hill, and he could see the top of the neighbor’s house peering from above some distant trees. Smoke was coming out of the chimney, blending with the grey cloudy sky. A crazy idea occurred to him all of a sudden. He knew Numbers was going to hate it.

_‘What if we make someone else find her?’_

Numbers looked at him with confusion. _‘What?’_

_‘Listen to me for a second. First we take Zapper and get rid of him. Then we come back and you fire your gun a few times outside the house. The neighbors will hear it and call the police. We leave before they arrive. They look inside the house and find the girl.’_

_‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’_

_‘We won’t leave anything that could lead them to Fargo, it’s all just Zapper’s stuff in here. It’s a good plan.’_

_‘It’s fucking insane! If we don’t get arrested, Fargo is surely going to kill us!’_

_‘We’ll just tell Fargo Zapper resisted and we had to shoot. We tell them we had no idea she was in the basement. We didn’t see anything. We just shot him, took, him and left. There was no time to inspect the house.’_

Numbers whipped around banged his fist on the wall, so hard that Wrench winced a little even if he couldn’t hear it. Numbers closed his eyes for a second, breathing through his mouth. When he opened them, Wrench knew that he’d already made his choice. They were partners. Partners were supposed to stand by each other.

_‘I swear to God, if your stupid plan lands us in a plastic bag at the bottom of a lake, I’m going to spend the rest of eternity strangling you.’_

 

Wrench put Zapper in the trunk of the car and slammed the lid shut. Numbers had disappeared inside the house without telling him where he was doing. He leaned on the car, closing his eyes. His anger wasn’t gone. It was just dormant, simmering under his skin until the moment he could allow himself to release it. Oh, he couldn’t until they were out in the woods and he would have free rein to get his hands on that scumbag. Numbers came out of the house, carrying something that looked heavy in a plastic bag.

_‘What were you doing?’_ Wrench asked.

_‘I just needed to grab something from the kitchen first.’_ Numbers said vaguely. Wrench decided it was better to let it slip in that moment. _‘Let’s go.’_

 

The ground was hard and frozen, making it difficult to dig. Wrench and Numbers grunted as they drove the shovels into the hardened dirt. Even in the middle of the forest with not a glimmer of civilization in miles, they couldn’t just leave a body to rot out in the open. The sun was fading in the sky, but the grave was almost finished. A few feet away, propped up against a tree, Zapper began to stir.

_‘I think this is good enough. Let’s finish this.’_ Numbers said, jerking his head towards their colleague.

Wrench nodded. He put down his shovel and strode down to the bound man under the tree. Numbers watched his partner loom over Zapper, clenching and unclenching his fists as the other man slowly came around.

“What the…” Zapper stuttered.

Whatever he was going to say, it was cut short by Wrench’s fist colliding with his face. Once the punches started, they just kept rolling. Wrench had removed his gloves for some reason, perhaps because he wanted to feel the other man’s skull cracking under his hands, but Numbers didn’t care to figure out his partner’s motivations. The sounds of tissue and bone beating and crushing filled the forest and Numbers watched with a sense of detachment. He put the shovel down on the ground next to the plastic bag. After a while, Wrench grew tired on pounding on Zapper with his fists and resorted to kicking him aimlessly. He hit without purpose, letting his fury direct his force to whatever body part his foot happened to land on. Numbers reminded himself why they had been sent on that job in the first place. As much satisfying that sight felt, he still needed Zapper capable of forming full sentences for a little longer. He circled around the tree and stood directly in front of his partner’s view.

_‘That’s enough. I still have to ask him about the ledger.’_

Wrench gave one last kick to the man’s groin and stepped back. _‘All yours’_ he signed with a theatrical bow.

Numbers crouched down in front of Zapper and gave him his best shark-like smile. “Hey, Zapper. How are ya feelin’?”

Zapper's face was a bloody and bruised mess. He spat down a blot of phlegm and blood and looked at Numbers through his swollen eyelids.

“Why… why…”

“Oh, you know exactly why you’re here, buddy” Numbers said, cutting to the chase. “You got a little too greedy for your own good and you got carried away. It’s the same old story. I bet you thought Carlyle would give you a pass because you’re one of his favorites or whatever, but nope. You fucked up, and here we are. Look, I don’t have all day, so let’s get to the point.” He grabbed Zapper’s face and pulled him closer. “Tell me where you put the ledger that you stole from Carlyle’s files, and I’ll make this quick.”

“The ledger…?”

Numbers slapped him across the face. He was sure the pain paled in comparison to the beating Zapper had just received, but he did it more for himself than to intimidate the other man.

“Yes, asshole, the ledger.” He said through gritted teeth. “The accounting book that you stole for whatever reason. I already wasted a stupid amount of time looking through your whole house trying to find it. So if you don’t want to suffer a level of pain that you can’t even imagine, I suggest you don’t piss me off any further and tell me what I need to know.”

Zapper’s eyes went wide, or as wide as they could in that state. “You searched my house?”

Numbers smiled, baring his teeth. “Yes, Zapper. We looked in _every_ room.”

The man beneath him squirmed, trying to prop himself up. “Wait. Wait. You can’t do this, Numbers. You’re going to regret it.”

“Am I?”

“No, no, you don’t get it. Fargo aren’t the only ones looking after me.” Zapper scampered to say. Numbers could recognize the signs of someone making up something as they went out of desperation. “I have friends…”

“No you don’t” Numbers cut him off. “You’re just scum who enjoys inflicting pain.”

Zapper’s eyes widened with recognition momentarily. He knew what Numbers was talking about. He scoffed. “And you don’t?”

Those words bothered Numbers more that he was willing to admit. Embarrassingly enough, he found himself getting defensive. “This is just a job for me. And unlike you, the people I slay can actually fight back.”

Zapper laughed. He coughed up some more bloody sputum, which he hacked on the dirty snow. “So do you think… you think you’re better than me, why? Because you think you only kill guys that deserve it?”

Numbers rose to his feet and kicked the man in the face. It didn’t look as impactful as Wrench’s blows, but he gave it his best try.

“This isn’t about me, you piece of shit.” He said. “Where’s the ledger?!”

Zapper rolled over, grunting in pain. “Why should I tell you? It’s not that fucking book that’s getting you so riled up.” He gave Numbers a bloody smile. “If you two had come visit a couple of days ago, you would change your minds. I could show you some real _fun_ things… things you can’t imagine… You want to deny it, but I know you’d end up liking it…”

Numbers felt a wave of nausea erupt from the pit of his stomach. His anger exploded into full-on, cold rage. He went over to the open grave and grabbed the plastic bottle from the bag on the ground. He walked back to Zapper and put down the bottle directly in front of Zapper’s eyes so he could read the label.

“You like your bleach concentrate, don’t you” Numbers said slowly. “None of that ordinary domestic kind. No, this is the high strength kind, the one that makes your eyes all watery. I suppose nobody wants their house smelling like rotting corpses, right?”

Zapper shook his head frantically, trembling in fear. “Wait, wait, wait…!”

“I learned this trick from Viper. Remember him?” Numbers uncapped the bottle and sneered. “Between you and me, it was more impressive when he did it. But this is the strongest stuff I could find in your house, so I guess we’ll have to make do.”

Zapper tried to beg, but Numbers drowned it out by turning the plastic bottle upside down and pouring its contents on the face of the rapist-murderer. His screams got lost among the endless woodland, swallowed by the bark of trees and reaching only the ears of uncaring hibernating animals underground. Numbers shook the bottle until it was empty. Wrench watched from a few feet away, unmoving.

Numbers waited for a few seconds, looking at what he’d done with sick and hazy fascination. There was a part of him that was scared of not being able to come back from this if he stared for too long. If he stared until he felt nothing. Something told him that he had to put an end to this before he reached that point. He pulled out his penknife and lingered for a moment, choosing the most optimal spot in which to sink the knife. He let the rage unleash and take control of him. He got tunnel vision, and for the next few seconds, his hands seemed to move on their own accord.

“I’m sick, and tired…” he panted, stabbing again and again “of working… with you… sick fucks… You don’t get to tell me… You don’t know me… We are nothing alike…” _Stab, stab, stab_ “I just wanted… to be left alone… Fuck you… The world… is a better place… without you…”

His hands were hurting. He let them drop at his sides, out of breath. He was shaking. Zapper’s shirt was covered in blood. He had stopped breathing a while ago. Wrench didn’t say anything. Numbers turned away, kneeling on the cold ground and covering his face with his hands so his partner wouldn’t read his words. His head was pounding.

“I hate this fucking job sometimes” Numbers admitted to the empty forest. Only the birds and the earthworms heard him say it.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He sighed and leaned onto the touch. Wrench helped him get to his feet, his eyes full of warmth and sympathy. Together they dragged Zapper into the newly dug hole in the ground.

 

The sun was only a sliver of light in the horizon, and the rest of the sky was painted dark. The snow had a faint orange glow that wouldn’t last much longer and the quickly vanishing light cast long shadows from the trees. They had left the front and basement doors wide open. The shelf that covered the hidden room was fully moved out of the way too, leaving visible track marks on the dirty floor. It was like a God damn trail of breadcrumbs, the cops would have to be blind to miss it.

Off in the distance, Zapper’s neighbors had turned the lights on in their house. Someone was getting dinner started. Wrench and Numbers stood on the side of their dead coworker’s house, their car close by and with the engine running. Numbers detached the silencer from his gun, leaving the weapon bare. He pointed it at the sky, his eyes fixed on the house beyond the pines. He fired two shots and waited.

A window opened in the second floor of the neighbor’s house. Numbers couldn’t see anyone from far away, but he knew he had their attention now. He fired two more shots, just to be sure. The window closed, and lights started switching on all over the house, like the residents were running through every room, rushing to the nearest phone. Numbers turned to Wrench and gave him a shove to get to the car.

“Come on, let’s go, go, go!”

He barely managed to get the seatbelt on before Wrench revved up the engine and they swerved into the asphalt, dashing away. Numbers kept his gaze in the rearview mirror, his stomach in knots. Every time they swerved into a curve, he expected to see a patrol car appear and block their way. They took a detour through a side road, avoiding the main route to the nearest town. Only after forty minutes of driving without running across any other vehicles did he start to relax. His headache only seemed to get worse though.

They didn’t stop at all until they were back in Fargo. Wrench killed the engine and looked at him.

_‘You know, we never actually found that accounting book.’_

Numbers took off his gloves, squeezing the black leather with his fingers. _‘I don’t give a shit.’_ God, this headache was killing him. _‘Let’s tell them that Zapper burned it or something.’_

They walked into their apartment, feeling like they’d just come back from a war. Numbers didn’t even turn on the lights and went straight to bed. He all but ripped off his clothes and crawled under the blankets. He wasn’t sure if he fell asleep or if he simply fainted.


	4. Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Show me your hands.

Wrench didn’t always trust the accuracy of close captions completely, but so far, he was certain that none of the news pieces he had watched had mentioned the murdered girl in the woods. He had stayed up all night, unable to sleep. The mute TV glared on the background all along as he paced around the apartment, making one cup of tea after another and checking on Numbers every once in a while. His partner kept twisting and turning and talking in his sleep, no doubt plagued by nightmares. Wrench had tried to wake him up as soon as he’d seen the state he was in, believing to be doing him a favor. But Numbers had started shaking then, eyes wide open but unseeing like he was deep in a night terror. His hands had gripped Wrench’s shoulders as his lips formed the words _shut the door_ over and over again. Wrench had hugged him tightly until the shivering stopped and Numbers fell back into slumber again.

Wrench himself almost fell asleep on the couch at one point. It was maybe four or five in the morning. He was debating if he should give in and try to catch some rest or if he might as well keep watching the news channel since he’d stayed up all that long. He was struggling to keep his eyelids open, his exhaustion finally overriding the stress and anxiety that had been keeping him awake for hours. But then, his sluggish mind registered the photo of a smiling girl in running shorts on the TV screen and he jolted himself awake. He leaned forward, quickly blinking the sleep out of his eyes to read the subtitles on the screen. After a few seconds, he realized that they were just running a story on college sports or something like that, nothing to do with grisly abductions and murders in rural areas. Wrench sighed and let his head fall back on the cushions. He was feeling on edge again. Impossible to go to sleep now.

It was past seven now. The sun was starting to rise, and still not a word on the news. The anchorwoman on the TV was talking about something that was happening on the other side of the world. Wrench rose from his seat and went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. Getting the coffee maker started, he sat down on a wooden chair and just stared at the pot, watching the dark liquid trickling down the curved glass surface as he rubbed his bruised knuckles absentmindedly. He’d washed them down with cold water the night before, but he was still feeling a dull ache after several hours. He didn’t know how long he just sat there staring at nothing, until he felt a hand on his back. Wrench practically jumped out of his seat.

Numbers put his hands up, eyes wide, and signed his apology. _‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’_

Numbers was already dressed for the day. Even if Wrench couldn’t have heard the sound of the shower, he was usually able to feel the presence of his partner moving around the apartment. He must have been zoning out pretty hard.

Wrench waved his hand in a ‘don’t worry about it’ kind of way. _‘I didn’t realize you were awake.’_

Numbers narrowed his eyes at him, looking at his partner closely. _‘Did you stay up all night?’_

 _‘No.’_ Wrench tried lamely. His lying face wasn’t very good even when he wasn’t sleep deprived.

His partner shook his head with exasperation. “God damn it, Wes.” But he didn’t look that mad, only frustrated. He poured two cups of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.

Wrench took the mug that was offered to him. He gulped it down with no additives, black and bitter and awakening his system in hot spurs. Numbers drank his own cup quietly in small sips, his eyes staring at nothing.

 _‘I wanted to see if they mentioned the girl in the news. They didn’t.’_ Wrench explained.

Numbers frowned. He finished his coffee and walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, and Wrench followed. Numbers turned on the TV and switched from one channel to another for a few minutes. He looked unsatisfied with what he found, so eventually he settled on one channel and turned his attention away from the TV.

 _‘I’m not sure how it works’_ Numbers said _‘but I guess it takes some time since the cops arrive at the scene until the story breaks out on the news. And it happened at night, so maybe there weren’t any reporters available to cover it until the next day.’_

_‘But this is big. I don’t think that town has ever seen a crime like this. It should be breaking news.’_

_‘Shit, I don’t know. Depends.’_ Numbers said. He pulled out his flip phone. _‘I should call Fargo. They’ll get suspicious if we don’t report back soon.’_

_‘What are you going to tell them?’_

_‘We agreed on feigning ignorance and acting like everything’s perfectly normal, didn’t we?’_ Numbers signed with a self-deprecating smirk. _‘I’ll tell them everything went fine with Zapper.’_

Wrench nodded. Numbers was right, there was little else they could do except sit down and wait until the whole thing blew up in their faces. Numbers left the room to make the call. Wrench never really understood his partner being so fussy about privacy when he talked over the phone, it wasn’t like Wrench could eavesdrop on his conversations. Wrench just accepted it as one of Numbers’ many quirks and let it be. He rested his head down on the cushions and closed his eyes. Just five minutes, he thought to himself.

He woke up to Numbers shaking him insistently. Wrench blinked in confusion, sitting up on the couch and tried to get a notion of how much time had passed. Numbers was looming over him, saying, _They know!_ Wrench turned his head to the TV and was assaulted by Zapper’s creepy face on the screen. There was an announcement written in capital letters under Zapper’s picture, requesting the public to contact authorities immediately if they saw the man in the photo. Well, it looked like their quickly improvised plan had worked well after all. But then again, who else were the cops going to blame, the girl was in Zapper’s house after all. The rolling text at the bottom of the screen explained that a murder suspect was at large and being hunted down by the law force. Good luck with that, Wrench thought sarcastically. We kinda beat you to it. The photo looked like it had been taken from a driver’s license, which was probably the case. Wrench didn’t think that Zapper was in a lot of public records were journalists could get his picture from. Turned out his real name was Ellison, too.

The shot changed to a picture of a girl in a blue graduation robe. From what Wrench could gather from the close captions, she had recently been identified as Vanessa Harper, 18, a student at UND that had gone missing ten days prior. The girl in the photo was smiling as she clutched her diploma in her hand, dreaming of all the things she would accomplish in the life that was ahead of her, a life that now she would never get to experience. Wrench felt his stomach twist. Everything in the last twelve hours had felt like living through some sort of feverish nightmare. Putting a name and a face to the body in that basement made it feel undeniably real. He looked away. Numbers was sitting on the other side of the couch, his eyes fixated on the TV screen with a look of barely repressed anger. It looked like they had been playing that news segment in a loop for a while now. Numbers turned off the TV and threw the remote on the coffee table. He turned to look at Wrench, and his partner thought he was going to say some bleak and profound misanthropic statement.

 _‘She looked like fucking Snow White.’_ Was what Numbers said instead.

Wrench gave him an odd look, but didn’t say anything. They sat together in silence, dwelling on their shared feelings of anguish.

 _‘Why did we do this?’_ Numbers asked after a while. He didn’t look at Wrench as he signed, like it was a hypothetical question that he was asking himself more than anything. _‘Really, why? What was the point of all this?’_

Wrench tapped his partner on the shoulder to get his attention. _‘I told you, we couldn’t just leave her there and pretend it never happened.’_

Numbers rolled his eyes. _‘We’re not fucking knights in shining armors. We didn’t bring her back to life or anything. I don’t see what good does this make.’_

Wrench didn’t know what to say to that. He just repeated, _‘We couldn’t leave her there. We couldn’t.’_

Numbers shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He raised his hands to say something else, but in that moment the screen of his cell phone lit up and the device started vibrating on the coffee table. They looked at it like it was a bomb about to explode, the consequences of their actions slowly dawning on them.

 _‘It’s from Fargo’_ Numbers said, _‘I have to answer.’_

Wrench didn’t move from his seat. Numbers picked up his phone and walked to the window with the phone pressed against his ear, turning his back on Wrench. The sun was bright in the sky, it was probably close to noon. Numbers ended the call very quickly and turned back to his partner.

_‘They watched the news. Tripoli wants to see us right now.’_

 

Numbers had only been in the top floor of the building once, and he’d never even gotten past the hallway. Now he was on his way to the office of the boss himself, and it very much felt like a walk to the gallows.

 _‘Just play it cool’_ He said to Wrench during the ride in the elevator. _‘Give short answers if they ask you and it’ll be fine.’_

Wrench looked like he was going to say something, but then the elevator doors opened. They exchanged a mutual look of resolution, a brief nod, and stepped out into the silent corridor. Numbers had a glaring suspicion that there were cameras watching their every move. The red carpet muffled the sound of their footsteps and was clean in a way that indicated how few people treaded on it on a daily basis. Numbers couldn’t help wondering what went on behind the many doors that they passed by. Were those offices even used anymore? The building was already there when Tripoli had taken it decades ago. He had since secluded himself at the top of his castle and locked it for the rest of his employees. He very rarely let anyone else get close to his domain, only the highest ranking men in the organization. At the end of the hallway, they were greeted by a male secretary behind a desk who barely looked up from his computer to point at the double mahogany doors to his left. “They’re waiting for you” he said, typing fast on his keyboard.

Numbers put his hand on the door and spared a glance to the secretary before going in. “It must get lonely up here, huh? Do you ever get bored?” The secretary ignored him completely, he was too busy listening to whoever was talking to him through his modern-looking headset. “Uh, nevermind.”

The office looked more or less just as Numbers had imagined. Big, luminous, expensive but austere at the same time. Hardly any decorations on sight. Tripoli did have one of those huge conference tables like the ones in the movies, and he sat at the far end of it like the emperor on his throne. The room was designed to make them feel alienated and inferior, and it was working terrifyingly well. The presence of Carlyle and Watkins, another top ranking mobster, was certainly a surprise. There was a glass pitcher filled with water at the center of the table with three glasses around it. Their bosses weren’t planning on offering them any. Wrench and Numbers stood at the end of the table, two lesser satyrs standing in front of Mount Olympus. It was a trial with no witnesses behind closed doors.

Carlyle was the first to speak. “I assume you two have heard about the events that transpired this morning concerning your recently departed colleague.”

Numbers nodded. His throat was as dry as sandpaper and he was sure that if he tried to speak, his voice would quiver and his charade would come crumbling down. They were watching him like vultures, looking for a sign of weakness.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Watkins demanded. “Like, care to explain how you two managed to fuck up so badly?”

“Please,” Carlyle tried to intercede, but Watkins kept going.

“I mean, how monumentally stupid do you have to be to not notice that your mark has a fucking kidnapped girl in his basement? Did you actually bother to do your fucking job and search his house or were you in too much of a hurry to go home and hump each other like rabid monkeys?”

“That’s enough” Carlyle cut him off with a stern tone. He adjusted his glasses on his nose bridge with a finger and looked at Numbers. His face, as usual, emoted nothing at all. “Were you aware of Mr. Zapper’s activities?”

He said it like he was talking about embezzling funds or something like that, not abducting teenagers and torturing them for days before stabbing them to death. And there it was again, the unexpected anger that Numbers couldn’t explain bursting up through his airways, clouding up his judgment and making him say something stupid.

“Well, I didn’t exactly spend a lot of time having drinks and chatting with the asshole, so no. You must think I have nothing else to do except exchange funny stories with every single self-absorbed prick in this place.”

Watkins looked at him with his mouth agape, his face getting increasingly redder. “What the fuck did you just say?” He seethed. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I could just throw you out that window and let your brains decorate the sidewalk for a week!”

“Now, now, let’s avoid the complications that such a thing would bring” Carlyle said, completely serious.

Watkins banged his fist on the table. “Damn it!” The glass pitcher trembled as it shook by a small seism and circular ripples formed in the liquid inside, but it didn’t topple over. “We have enough problems in this organization as it is to deal with this bullshit.”

Tripoli hadn’t said a word the whole time. Numbers hadn’t forgotten about him, though. He could feel the other man’s eyes watching him from the back of the room.

“What about the ledger?” Carlyle asked, changing the subject.

This was the part for which Numbers had been preparing himself mentally the most, so he was ready to answer without flinching. “I told you this morning, he burned it. There was nothing left.”

“He said that?” Watkins asked.

“Yes.”

“How do you even know he was telling the truth?” Watkins insisted. “He could have been lying for all we know!”

“Because I poured bleach on his face.”

Ah, yes. The old masterful craft of mixing lies with the truth. It worked wonders if you knew how to do it right.

The three men sitting at the table stopped and looked at him for a moment, their faces showing vague hints of surprise. For a split of a second, Numbers swore that Tripoli seemed impressed with him. Years ago, Numbers would have done anything to receive that kind of acknowledgment from that man. But now, he didn’t care at all.

“This is not the end of the world” Carlyle said, getting back on topic. “Not necessarily. We have time to do some damage control. Let’s look at this rationally.” He leaned forward on the table, and the coating of his eyeglasses reflected the amber light of the chandelier. “Right now, the police are just looking for Mr. Ellison. There’s no reason to fear that this unfortunate thing will affect the syndicate in any way.”

“Really? How long do you think it will take them to make the connection?” Watkins rebutted. “The fucking feds have been on our case for years! They’re just looking for any kind of excuse to bust through the door with a SWAT team and a search warrant!”

“If it comes down to it, they won’t find anything.” Carlyle replied calmly. “We are well prepared for that kind of occurrence.”

And then Watkins and Carlyle started arguing with each on whether or not they should call a lawyer and start preparing a legal defense or if they should keep it quiet for the time being. Carlyle kept talking like an android and Watkins kept shouting and Numbers just stopped paying attention to them and kind of spaced out for a minute. Tripoli still hadn’t said a word.

Carlyle was suggesting that the syndicate ceased all illegal activities for a few days until the whole thing blew over, when suddenly, Tripoli cleared his throat. It wasn’t even very loud, just noticeable enough, but it made the two men go quiet right away. All the faces in the room turned to look at the head of the syndicate.

“I want to have a word with Mr. Wrench.”

Numbers felt all the blood drain from his face in a second. He managed to get himself together just enough to reply.

“Okay” He said. He didn’t move from where he was.

Tripoli looked at him for a moment. “Alone.” He clarified.

Numbers looked down. “Yeah- Yes, of course.”

Carlyle and Watkins exchanged a glance. They rose from their chairs and walked out the door, and Watkins delivered a look of disdain to Numbers on his way out. Numbers ignored him and turned his eyes to Wrench, who looked puzzled. Numbers signed a quick _‘stay here’_ , which did nothing but increase the confusion on his partner’s face. Numbers shook his head once, mouthing a quiet _sorry_ before following the other men through the door.

Back in the hallway, Watkins didn’t waste a second to shove Numbers against the wall. It was a brief shove, the actual physical contact lasted less than a second. It was more like brushing off a stain of bird excrement on your clothes. Numbers rubbed his shoulder and glared at him.

Watkins pointed at the elevator at the end of the hallway. “You can wait at the bottom where you belong. I meant it before when I said I could toss you out the window like garbage. Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and follow through with my words.”

After saying his piece of mind, Watkins stormed out and disappeared behind one of the doors in the corridor. Carlyle lingered for a moment longer.

“Bleach, huh? That sounds messy” the bald man commented as he walked away. “But very cost-effective. Hmm.”

 

Wrench didn’t really know what was going on during most of the meeting, he was too far away from his superiors to read their lips. He was used to letting Numbers do the talking in these situations. He figured that Watkins was pissed off and Carlyle was being his usual pedantic self, but that was nothing new and it was what he’d been expecting, so he tried not to worry too much. But when they left him alone in the room with Tripoli, he was at a loss. Numbers had looked like he was afraid of saying too much to him on front of the others, so Wrench had to trust his partner and do as he was told.

Tripoli got to his feet and approached him slowly. It was a curious thing, the way that Tripoli inspired fear in others. Other men were frightening through their words, their actions, their body language. With Tripoli, it was precisely the absence of all these things that was intimidating. The man would just stand there and stare at you not saying a word, and you would start feeling terrified because you knew that, in the next few seconds, literally anything could happen. And you wouldn’t be able to predict it. Wrench liked to watch documentaries. There were species of fish in the ocean that would rest on the sea bed keeping still and camouflaging themselves with the rocks to catch their prey. These bottom-dwellers would wait unmoving for days, not reacting at all to anything, until a hapless fish would swim close by and they would snatch it in the blink of an eye.

That was Tripoli. He was the motionless predator waiting at the bottom of the deep blue sea.

Tripoli stood in front of Wrench and looked at him. He was scanning his face, looking for any signs of dishonesty. Wrench didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Show me your hands” said Tripoli.

Wrench obeyed, raising his hands to his chest, palms up. Tripoli reached out and clasped his right wrist in a tight grip. Wrench forced himself not to flinch back. He knew the other man could break his wrist in a second if he so desired to do so.

Tripoli turned his right hand over, revealing the bruises and scratches on his knuckles. The shorter man examined them for a moment before speaking.

“I want you to do something for me” he said. “For a minute, I want you to imagine how it would be like to spend the rest of your life trying to communicate with only one hand. I want you to close your eyes and just imagine how helpless you would feel. Because the next time you do something this stupid, I’ll cut off your arm. That’s a promise.” He let go of Wrench’s hand. “And the same goes for your partner. Now get out of my sight.”

 

The moment he stepped out of the elevator, Numbers was all over him, accosting him with questions and concerned looks.

_‘What? What did he say to you?’_

Wrench shrugged, trying to brush it off. _‘Nothing. He just called me a moron a few times.’_

Numbers was having none of it. He grabbed Wrench by the elbow and dragged him towards the front door. _‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’_ His face made it very clear that they would be talking about it as soon as they were alone. They walked by Dunbar and a few other guys on the corridor. The small flock of gangsters were talking among themselves and laughing, probably at their expense. They threw knowing smirks their way as Wrench and Numbers passed by, and Dunbar shouted something that Wrench didn’t catch with a smug face. Numbers replied with a “fuck off, Dunbar” over his shoulder without stopping.

 _‘Be honest with me’_ Numbers demanded when they were in the car. _‘Did he threaten you?’_

 _‘No more than expected’_ Wrench said, deflating. He looked down at his own hands for a moment before he added, _‘He talked about bodily harm. Hypothetical amputations. You know, the usual.’_

Numbers rubbed his temples. “Damn it.”

 _‘What do you think will happen next?’_ Wrench asked.

_‘Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe we should avoid the headquarters for a few days, in case some police detective decides to pay a surprise visit. Maybe the boss will demote us to parking valets.’_

_‘I think they knew.’_

_‘What do you mean?’_

_‘Those three’_ Wrench said, referring to their bosses. _‘I’m still not entirely convinced that they didn’t know about Zapper’s secret hobby. I thought they knew everything about all of us.’_

 _‘They have better things to do than monitor us 24/7, unless it involves their money’_ Numbers pointed out. _‘Although I wouldn’t put it past them to suspect it and look the other way because they didn’t give a shit.’_ He shook his head. _‘Do we really know any of the guys we work with? Maybe Jergen likes to skin kittens in his free time.’_

Wrench clenched his fists and looked out the window. Numbers squeezed his hand once before starting up the car.

That night in their apartment, they drank an entire bottle of tequila between the two of them and sprawled on the couch, too tired both physically and mentally to do anything else but stare at the ceiling. Wrench put his head on Numbers’ chest and closed his eyes as he felt the other man’s fingers caressing his curly hair. All the lights in the apartment were off and the only source of light was the glow of the streetlights coming in through the windows. Wrench fell into a semi-doze for a while, until random dots of colour started flashing behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes to the sight of fireworks flaring in the sky. They cast the room in flickers of yellow and green and purple, the vestiges of violent explosions reduced to brief specks of light that vanished in their dark living room.

 _‘Right, I forgot what day it is’_ Numbers said, looking down at him. From his position, Wrench saw his face upside down. _‘Happy New Year.’_

Wrench turned around and kissed the side of his neck. Numbers put his arms around him and twisted around until they were a tangle of limbs on the couch. The fireworks continued for a few minutes, until the last dandelion-shaped flare faded and the sky went dark once again.

 

The man in the blue coat watched the building across the street through the wide windows of the diner. His coffee had gone cold. Almost three hours, and nothing noteworthy had happened. Just a few people coming in and out of the building, but not the man he was looking for. Never him. The man in the blue coat didn’t understand it. Did he actually live inside that building? Surely he must step outside every now and then. The question was, when? The man in the blue coat was starting to realize how ineffective this whole surveillance business was. Maybe he should find a better spot to hole himself up, if he stayed much longer he would start drawing attention to himself.

The waitress approached his table with a coffee pot in hand. “Do you need anything else, mister?”

The man in the blue coat gave her a polite smile. “No, thank you. Just the check.”

She gazed down at him, and a faint glimmer of recognition appeared behind her eyes. “Have I seen you around before? Your face looks familiar.”

She looked like she was in her late forties or early fifties. She had most likely lived in that city her whole life. “No, I don’t think so” the man in the blue coat said, still smiling. “I’m just passing through.”

“Oh, well, I guess I must have mistaken you for someone else.” She said, accepting his answer. “I’ll bring ya the check in a moment.”

“Thanks.”

The waitress went away, and the man resumed watching the building through the window. Perhaps he should reconsider his plan of action, as the current one wasn’t looking very promising. The front door of the building swung open and out walked two men. They didn’t look familiar, but he knew without a doubt that they worked for the man he was looking for, because really, it wasn’t like random people ever stumbled inside that building by accident. The man in the blue coat watched them get inside a car and drive away shortly after. He pursed his lips, hesitating. Perhaps if he couldn’t get access to the man directly, maybe he could get closer to his goal through his employees. Right now, he needed information first and foremost. There were still too many things that he didn’t know. He had to act with extreme caution, if he got too close too soon it could bring catastrophic consequences on himself.

At the time being, his biggest advantage was that the other men were unaware of his existence. Better to keep it that way.


	5. Relay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're experiencing some technical difficulties. Please stand by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's some spoilers for "A Storm of Swords" in this chapter. Although season 3 of GoT has been out for years so I'd say this has already dripped down the layers of pop culture and hardly counts as a spoiler anymore. But I'm going to throw this out there, you know, just in case. Don't worry, nothing to do with weddings of a particular color.

Numbers wedged his fingers under the bumper of the car, and felt his way through the narrow gap. His fingers didn’t brush anything except empty air. He repeated the process with the back bumper, getting the same results. He didn’t really expect anything else, the space behind the bumpers was a too much obvious place to hide what he was looking for. It was all there in the manual. Start with the easy spots, then go on to search the less thought-of ones. He kneeled on the ground till he was at eye level with the top of the back left wheel, and he felt his knees start to soak up in snow through his old jeans. He took the flashlight that was wedged between his teeth and flashed it down the wheel well. He did a quick inspection of the space between the wheel and the carriage, and moved on to do the same with the other wheels.

Across the street, an old man in a bathrobe and pyjama pants came out of the front door of his apartment building. He descended the steps to the garbage bins on the sidewalk, a bulky black trash bag in his hand. Numbers turned his gaze away from the car for a second and stayed there, kneeling on the sidewalk, to watch the old man take out the garbage. That time in the morning, most of the people living in that street were either at work, in the case of adults, or in school, in the case of younger ones. The only ones still at home, for the most part, belonged to one of either three categories: the stay-at-home moms, the sick and elderly, and the never-do-wells.

The lid of the garbage bin clanged shut, and the old man stayed there, unmoving, looking at Numbers. The man swayed a little on his slipper-clad feet, like his aging body had forgotten how to keep its balance in a standing position, and even from across the street Numbers could see the liver spots on his face and his glazy, unfocused eyes. The old man looked at Numbers like he couldn’t really see him, like he was looking through him, searching for something that wasn’t there. Finally, as if he had suddenly remembered something, the man turned around and slowly wobbled back up the steps and disappeared inside the building. Numbers let out a deep breath that condensed in a puff on his face. He waited for a moment that felt too long, and continued with the task at hand. After a couple of minutes checking all the wheels, he deemed it time to inspect the undercarriage. That part was going to take longer and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. He lied down on his back on the pavement, and wiggled underneath the car. There was a reason why he had put on a pair of dirty jeans and an old windbreaker that morning. He started scanning the mesh of metal tubes with the flashlight, going deliberately slowly so his inexpert eye didn’t miss anything odd. It was very uncomfortable. His arm didn’t have much mobility in the cramped space so he had to twist his wrist at awkward angles to point the flashlight where he wanted, and he could feel the cold hard ground under his back even through his clothes.

Numbers went at it for about five minutes when he felt a sudden nudge to his foot. Taken by surprise, he jerked upwards and hit his head with the framework. Cursing, he wiggled out from underneath the car, rubbing his forehead and blinking at the sunlight that now hurt his eyes. Wrench was standing on the sidewalk, looking rather unimpressed. He couldn’t sign as his hands were busy carrying an armload of groceries, but the look on his face was clear enough to convey the words on his mind, namely: _what the hell are you doing?_

Numbers got to his feet, brushing his jeans and leaving grease marks all over them. He looked at both sides of the street. Nobody on sight. Instead of answering, he signed, _‘Let’s go inside’_. Wrench frowned, unpleased, but followed.

Wrench stood in the middle of the kitchen, still carrying those grocery bags, and looked at him expectantly. Numbers looked out on the street through the kitchen window for a moment. A short woman was skittering away down the sidewalk, probably in a hurry to get to wherever she was going and get away from the cold. A shadow shaped like a person moved behind a window on the opposite building. Numbers pulled the curtains closed and turned around to his partner.

_‘I was checking the car for GPS trackers.’_

Wrench didn’t say anything right away. His expression didn’t even flinch. Gently, he put the groceries down on the table.

 _‘What makes you think that someone put a tracker on our car?’_ His deaf partner asked, slow and clear.

Wrench had put the eggs at the bottom of the bag again, and one of them had cracked under the weight and now egg yolk was leaking through the bag. Numbers dedicated a couple of seconds to think that he should clean it up before it dried on the table and it became five times harder to scrub it off. He kept telling Wrench not to put the eggs at the bottom, but the other often forgot.

 _‘Don’t you think that they let us off too easy?’_ was his circumvent answer.

Wrench gave him a guarded look, and then he sat down. He knew that a longer explanation was coming.

 _‘They didn’t press us hard enough with questions’_ Numbers continued, his hands flailing spastically instead of his usual, much more graceful signing. _‘I feel like they believed our flimsy story too easily. I was expecting more of a punishment, but they’ve just given us a few trivial jobs and after just a few weeks it seems like they have forgotten the whole thing. It doesn’t feel right.’_

 _‘They just thought we were careless and stupid’_ Wrench said. _‘If they thought even for a second that we did what we did on purpose, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’_

Exactly. The only reason they were still breathing was because Tripoli and Carlyle believed it had been a simple case of negligence on their part, rather than something intentional. Except that Wrench and Numbers had never been careless in their job. They didn’t do careless. They had a stellar record, for God’s sake.

 _‘But they don’t trust us anymore’_ Numbers said with a grim face. _‘It’s obvious. Suddenly we’re running meaningless errands like we’re teenagers again. It’s almost like they want to keep us out of the way. Like they don’t trust us with the important stuff anymore.’_ He took a rag from one of the cabinets and dabbed the smudge of egg yolk on the table with it. He pressed the cloth against the wood and left it there, soaking up. _‘I don’t like this. I think they’re waiting for us to let our guards down.’_

He didn’t add ‘I think they’re watching us’, but he didn’t have to. Wrench rose from his chair and went over to the window. He pulled the curtain over and looked out the street for a few seconds.

Wrench turned around, frowning. _‘There’s nothing out there.’_

Numbers felt a thin trail of anger rise up inside of him, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. He was being as honest as possible, making himself more vulnerable than what he was used to, and Wrench wasn’t making it any easy for him.

_‘I’m not paranoid.’_

_‘I didn’t say you were.’_ Wrench said.

_‘You’re thinking it. It’s written all over your face.’_

_‘Fuck you.’_

Numbers didn’t rise to the provocation. It wouldn’t do them any good in that moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. _‘Whatever. I didn’t find anything in the car anyway. But I think we shouldn’t let our guards down. Just… stay alert. Please?’_

Wrench set his mouth in a terse line, like he almost wanted to keep prodding him, but in the end he let it go. _‘I’ll tell you if I notice anything odd.’_

But Numbers knew what his partner wasn't saying all that he was thinking.

Together, they started sorting through the bag of groceries, not saying another word.

 

As if the universe intended to make Numbers look like an idiot by disproving his suspicions in the most humiliating way, only three days later Fargo sent them on another job. A job that actually required some skills other than standing in a room looking tough. A middleman in Fargo’s extensive net of underground gun dealers had been late to his payments too many times and someone had to go over there and smack some respect back into him. The guy in question was insignificant, only small fry in the deep dark pond of the Midwest crime syndicates. But to complicate things even more, he had gone AWOL right after Fargo had last contacted him to ask for their money, which was possibly one of the dumbest things he could have possibly done. Numbers often asked himself why their line of work had to attract so many stupid types. Was it really that hard to understand that by making people like himself waste their time chasing them, they only made it harder on themselves in the long run?

Numbers had trouble remembering the name of the town they were in. They all had started to blur together after a few years. Summers and winters driving all around the Midwest, their memories scattered across road maps and the print of their tires burnt along the veins of deep America. They parked in front of a small apartment building and made their way up the creaky wooden stairs. That place was the last known residence of the guy they were looking for, and although it was unlikely that they would find him there, they had to start their search somewhere. Numbers believed that a raise was long overdue for all the bullshit detective work they were forced to do, but of course, he’d never voice that opinion out loud to his bosses.

He heard shouting at the top of the stairs. Looking down the hallway, he saw a tall middle-aged man banging his fist on the door of apartment 4D. Great, just the one they were heading to. Rolling his eyes, he waved a hand at his partner and they both stopped at the foot of the stairs and witnessed the scene across the corridor.

“Nicole! Open the door, Nicole! I know you’re in there!” The man shouted, knocking on the door like he was trying to tear it down with his fist. Numbers noticed the metal ring of keys hanging from the man’s belt and realized that he must be the landlord. He wondered why the man bothered to knock when he could just invite himself in any time he wanted.

The door opened to reveal a girl that appeared to be in her twenties with the most jaded face this side of the Missouri river.

“What?” she said.

“Cut the crap. You know why I’m here” the man said, towering over her. “You two were supposed to pay rent last Thursday. This is the third time you’re late, and I’m getting tired of hovering over you like I’m your goddamn school counselor.”

“What are you talking about? I thought Jasper gave it to you last week!” The girl protested.

“Well, he didn’t!” the man barked at her. “And since I haven’t seen him in days and you look like shit, I assume he dumped you for someone who doesn’t have a perpetual resting bitch face. Frankly, I don’t care about what you and your boyfriend are up to, I just want my money. You have until next Friday, or else I’ll be hauling your skinny ass out the door to make room for better tenants. Is that clear?”

“Crystal. Are you done?”

“Oh, you’re damn right I’m done. I’m so done with this.”

The girl slammed the door closed, and the man turned on his feet and walked away, scowling. He gave the duo a glance as he brushed past them. “Good afternoon” Numbers said to him with fake cheerfulness. The man grunted something in reply and disappeared down the stairs.

 _‘And I thought our landlord was an asshole’_ Numbers signed. Wrench just frowned at him in confusion before stomping down the corridor.

Numbers raised his gloved fist to the door of apartment 4D and knocked three times, much more softly than the other man had done so before. “Go away!” he heard the girl call back from inside the apartment.

He knocked again, this time more insistently. “Ugh! Seriously?” He heard footsteps approaching and gave his partner a sideways glance.

The door swung open in front of them. “Give me a break, it’s not Friday ye–“

Nicole halted silent right away when she saw the two of them standing there. She stared at them with shock for a moment, looking like she was trying to remember if she knew them from somewhere and what the hell could they possibly want. Numbers was familiar with that look. He and Wrench didn’t exactly look like Jehovah’s witnesses or door-to-door salesmen.

After just a couple of seconds, she made up her mind and reached around to slam the door on their faces. Wrench was expecting that kind of reaction, and quickly wedged his foot in the doorway. The door bounced on his sturdy boot and opened back with a low screech. Nicole stood there, dumbfounded, and gawked at them with a look of incredulity on her freckled face, before shaking herself out of her stupor and scowling again.

“Oh, fucking fantastic! This is just what I needed!” She said sarcastically. She turned her back on them and went into the apartment, leaving the door open behind her. “Well, don’t be shy, come on in! Goddamnit.”

Wrench and Numbers followed her inside without a word. The apartment was small and a bit messy, but nowhere near as bad as Number had initially imagined. He looked around, looking for any signs of a male occupant living there, like clothes thrown on the couch or the toilet seat pulled up. He didn’t see any of that. Either Jasper was a very tidy guy, or they had arrived too late.

Nicole made her way to the tiny kitchen and started going through the cabinets. “Look, if you’re here for Jasper, he’s not here” she said, looking at them over her shoulder. Numbers didn’t say anything. She groaned. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

It was too cramped for the three of them, so Wrench and Numbers stood at the doorway and watched her going about her business silently. Numbers wasn’t sure of what he was waiting for. Normally, when he wanted to get information out of someone, he first observed them to gauge if they were the cooperating type or not. It was always easier to begin by asking nicely, and most people responded well to that. Most people just wanted to stay out of trouble and avoid confrontations at all cost, so it wasn’t difficult to prod them for answers if you asked right. And to be fair, going around bullying and intimidating people was only good for drawing a lot of unnecessary attention to themselves, so it was a stupid thing to do. However, sometimes he inevitably ran into douches who ruined his day by acting all tough and nasty, and in those cases, Numbers was perfectly okay with beating some sense into them.

This girl, however, was a bit confusing. The way she acted about the two unwelcome visitors in her home was unusual to say the least. Numbers couldn’t figure her out right away. That’s why he decided to wait and see.

She had a kettle heating up on the stove, and she pulled a mug from one of the cabinets. She glanced back at them, and after thinking about it for a moment, she pulled two more mugs.

“Do you plan on saying anything, or at you just going to stand there and stare me to death?” She asked, crossing her arms on her chest with apprehension. “Just get it over with, I don’t have time for this.”

She said it like she expected them to start beating the shit out of her ( _or worse_ , an insidious little voice said in the back of his head) but she was just too fed up to care. Numbers didn’t know how to respond to that. He opened his mouth, but the kettle started hissing loudly in that moment. Nicole turned her attention away from them to attend to it. In her hurry, she grabbed at it the wrong way and burned her hand.

“Fuck!” she cried out, dropping the kettle. It clanged loudly on the stove and fell to the floor, spilling hot tea everywhere. Nicole screamed again and leaped backwards, narrowly avoiding getting splashed with boiling water. She stood in the corner of the small space that could barely be considered a kitchen, looking down at the floor and cradling her injured hand to her chest. Wrench and Numbers looked at her and then at each other. Numbers sighed and approached her slowly, careful not to step on the puddle.

“Hey, let me help you with that,” he said, reaching out to her.

Nicole looked up at him and jerked back like she’d been electrocuted. “Don’t touch me!”

Numbers froze, stunned. He stood there, blinking, and put his hand down slowly. And then, without warning, her tough girl act fell apart and she started crying. It came out in quiet sobs and small hiccups, like the cries of an abandoned kitten. She covered her face with her hands and let her body slid down the wall to sprawl down on the floor, her shoulders shaking with muffled whimpers of sorrow. Numbers looked back at his partner, gaping.

 _‘Do something!’_ Wrench signed angrily.

_‘Like what? This isn’t my fault!’_

_‘I don’t know, but don’t just stand there like an idiot!’_

Nicole, oblivious to their quiet bickering, gasped for breath and seemed to calm down a bit. “Do whatever you want,” she wheezed between choked breaths, “I’m going to be homeless in a week, I just don’t care anymore.”

Numbers looked down at her, at the holes in her sweater and how underweight she looked under those baggy jeans. Only then did he notice the bruise on her cheekbone, partially covered by her dirty blonde hair. The sight of it gave him a feeling in his gut that he couldn’t describe. It was a kind of bitter anger, mixed with weariness. A weariness so deep, and so rooted inside him, that he couldn’t remember ever experiencing the world without that veil of despair coating everything he touched. He took a moment to examine the kitchen, the cracked tiles on the floor, the mismatched cutlery drying in the dish rack, the half broken plastic blinds. His eyes fell upon a word-of-the-day calendar on the countertop. February 6th. Word of the day: steganography. ‘The art or practice of concealing a message, image, or file within another message, image, or file.’ For a moment there, his mind went blank and filled with white noise. One single thought broke through the buzz of his troubles and gripes and lit up, loud and obnoxious like a neon sign.

_What the hell am I doing here?_

But seriously, what was he doing? He didn’t give a flying fuck about Jasper, or the money the guy owed Fargo, or whatever stupid protocols Carlyle insisted every one of them followed. What business did he have intruding this girl’s life like he was some kind of pistol-whipping boogeyman? Making her cry in front of two strangers was nothing. He could _really_ hurt her if he wanted to. And for what? For what?

She had stopped sobbing by then, and was rubbing at her face with her sleeve. Numbers reached inside his coat and she visibly flinched. He ignored the small pang of shame in his chest and took out his wallet. Cursing himself inwardly, he pulled out a few bills and started counting them.

“Here. I think this should get you covered for the next month or so,” he said, offering the bundle of money to her. She looked at it warily and her eyes darted up to him, frowning in confusion. She didn’t make a move to grab it. He sighed. “You know, you really should take it before I change my mind.”

Gingerly, her fingers reached out for the bills and closed around them. Numbers gave her a brief smile, trying to brush aside the fact that he’d just given away the equivalent of three weeks’ pay without a second thought, like he was rolling in cash. He most certainly wasn’t.

“What do you guys want?” She asked, her eyes going back and forth between the two men.

“Nothing” Numbers said. “We just really need to speak with Jasper.”

“I haven’t seen him in days. I don’t know where he is.” She sounded genuinely upset saying this, like she was sorry that she couldn’t be more helpful.

“Okay.” Numbers made it clear in his voice that he believed her.

Nicole braced herself on the counter for balance and stood up slowly. She put the money away in the back pocket of her jeans. “How do you know Jasper anyway?”

Numbers grinned at her. “We have common friends.”

She scoffed. “I thought Jasper didn’t have any friends.” She leaned over the sink and put her burned hand under the tap of cold water for a few seconds. “Well, apart from his bowling buddies.”

He made a mental note to ask her about that later. She exited the kitchen and Wrench stepped aside to get out of her way. She came back with a bucket and a mop and started cleaning up the mess on the floor.

Numbers took the kettle from where it had rolled into a corner, put it down on the counter gently and turned off the stove. He waved a hand at her face. “He did that to you?”

Her eyes widened, and she touched the bruise on her cheek subconsciously. She quickly ran her hand through her long locks of dark blonde hair, trying in vain to cover it. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “He’s a leech and a wimp, but he’s not the violent type.” She leaned the mop against the wall and crossed her arms. “Last week I came back from work and I found him packing all his stuff. He told me he wasn’t ‘feeling it anymore’ and that we needed to ‘give each other some space’.” Numbers guessed that was around the time that Fargo had called Jasper to ask what the hell was up with their money, and the guy had conveniently decided that it was the perfect time for a change of air, girlfriend and everything else be damned. “I told him there was no away I was just letting him off the hook so easily after supporting him for months while he was unemployed. I dunno, I guess we both started shouting. I tried to block the door to keep him from leaving, he pushed me out of the way, and I knocked my face against a table. It’s no big deal. That was the last time I saw him.”

“What a stand-up guy.” Numbers said drily.

“He stole all my jewelry too.” She said. “I mean, most of it was worthless junk anyway, but he took my mother’s necklace. Bastard knew that’s the only valuable thing I own.”

Numbers closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “You, uh… You mentioned something about bowling?”

“Yeah. We used to go to the bowling alley downtown a lot when we first moved here. I lost interest in it after a while, so he started hanging out with a couple of guys who work there. He kept saying they were going to hook him up for a business they had going on the side. Bullshit. Nobody in their right mind would trust Jasper running their business.”

 _Except for the recruiters back at Fargo, apparently_ , Numbers thought cynically. He smiled again. “You don’t happen to remember their names, do you?”

 

His hands shivered a little from the cold as he put the key in the ignition. The engine had been acting funny for days and it took him two tries to start the car. He tried not to think that the amount of money he’d given Nicole could cover all the repairs on their car and then some. He noticed Wrench was trying to sign something at him.

 _‘What happened in there?’_ Wrench asked.

Numbers shrugged. _‘It’s no use trying to break people when they’re already past their breaking point.’_

That wasn’t completely true though. Even when somebody thought that things couldn’t possibly be any worse for them, there always were many ways he could make it even more terrible. You think this is suffering? Oh boy you haven’t seen anything yet.

Wrench looked at him in that way that still made Numbers squirm a little inside, and then just leaned in and kissed his cheek innocently. Numbers blinked back at him, unresponsive.

 _‘What was that for?’_ He asked. Wrench shrugged too, his way of saying, ‘no reason’. Numbers sighed and put the car in reverse to get out of the parking lot. _‘Come on, we still have to find this guy.’_

He turned on the radio, wanting some distraction. There were a lot of small local stations in the area, so he never knew what he was going to get when tuning in the dials. Some of the stations would play some really interesting music from unknown local bands, while others were just plain weird. In this case, it sounded like some random guy with a bad case of throat infection and zero social skills had somehow gotten his hands on some radio broadcast equipment and was now rambling his thoughts into the airwaves from the confines of his mother’s basement.

 _“So, today we, um, we’d like to remember a beloved neighbor who passed away recently”_ the DJ was saying. _“Like I’ve said, he was a… he was a truly upstanding guy. Yeah. A real pillar of the community… and the last of his name. So, um, I guess we’re all going to miss him very much. Oh, dear, now I made you sad. I know I’m sad. So, here’s some music to lighten the mood. This is ‘Train From Kansas City’. It’s kind of an old song, but I think you’ll like it. So, um, there it goes.”_

 

There weren’t a lot of people in the bowling alley since it was a weekday. Just a group of bored teenagers making time before dinner and a few older men half-assing their throwing techniques in one of the lanes but mostly using it as an excuse to sit together and exchange stories while they drank beer. Wrench and Numbers paid them no mind and went straight to the desk at the far back. Numbers knew the two of them were not blending in with the crowd, so he didn’t want to stay for too long. Just get in, get the information they needed, and get out.

Two young men in light blue uniforms were at the desk. One of them was a boy with bad acne scars, who was spraying a pair of worn bowling shoes with disinfectant behind the desk. The other one, a guy with a Celtic cross tattoo peeking out from underneath his uniform shirt, was perched on the countertop and talking animatedly to his quiet audience of one.

“…and then I wake up on the kitchen floor, and Lindsey is trying to put a bag of frozen peas over my dislocated shoulder and asking her mom over the phone –cuz  her mom’s an ER nurse, you see– eh, asking her mom what to do. At one point she starts freaking out because she thinks there’s blood coming out of my ear, and I’m lying there, like, the fuck is going on, why is Lindsey crying, and all the while our friends, who are also drunk as shit are watching from the other room and laughing. And in the end it turned out that was just chili sauce in my ear and not blood, but it took her a whole ten minutes to calm down. And that’s why I’m never playing drunk twister with Mark and his friends aga–”

“Hey, are you Keith?” Numbers interrupted.

The two guys turned to look at them. The kid with the acne scars gave them a wary look and seemed to recoil on himself behind the counter. Tattoo guy eyed them up and stood up straight. “Yeah, that’s me.” He said. “Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Jasper.” Numbers said. “He a friend of yours?”

Keith shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Weeell, kind of.” He trailed off. “We just hang out sometimes. He comes here and we talk, mostly, but I don’t really know him that much. Haven’t seen him in a while though.”

“His girlfriend told me that you offered him a part in some business.”

Keith blinked at him, perplexed. “What?” He examined the two men in front of him, his mind no doubt evaluating the situation. Numbers knew the types of him: just an ordinary guy, from a small town, with a simple life. But that didn’t mean that he was stupid. He’d probably never crossed paths with criminals the caliber of Wrench and Numbers before, but from their pose and their appearance, he could read subconsciously that they weren’t the kind of people to be trifled with. He could _sense_ the danger in them. Smart boy.

Keith turned to the younger boy and said: “Sammy, why don’t you go to the storeroom and check that there’s enough toilet paper?”

“But…” the kid mumbled.

“Sammy, now!” the boy obeyed, disappearing behind a back door. Keith turned back to Numbers and started talking in a low voice. “Okay, I don’t know what kind of mess Jasper got himself into, but it has nothing to do with me. First of all, you got it wrong, it was him who came up to me with a business idea, not the other way around.”

“Interesting.” Numbers said. “What kind of business?”

“I don’t want any trouble.” Keith said agitatedly.

“Who said anything about that?” Numbers said calmly. He repeated: “What kind of business?”

The younger man seemed to reach the conclusion that it was in his best interest to play along if he wanted to get rid of them. “A moving company.”

Numbers raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Yeah, except for the fact that Jasper didn’t have any working experience on it, or a license for that matter. And he wouldn’t give me any details when I asked, he just said that he had ‘contacts’ and kept it vague. Honestly, it sounded shady as fuck, so I told him to leave me alone. He stopped coming after that, so I assumed he was pissed at me for turning him down.”

Numbers hummed, giving the young man a faint smile. “Where could we find this moving company of his?”

Keith bit his lip, glancing back and forth from them to the phone behind the desk. Numbers groaned low in his throat and gave a sideways glance to the door at the back. “Should I go ask Sammy instead?”

“Hey, leave my cousin out of it!” Keith snapped. “Fine. Fine. Look, I don’t even know if Jasper actually got the whole thing started in the end, but he mentioned that he wanted to go to Minot. He wanted to name it ‘Hot Fuzz Movers’ or something stupid like that.”

Numbers smiled, looking pleased. “Thank you, Keith. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The other guy said. “Please just leave.”

Well, how could Numbers say no to that when the other person asked so nicely?

 

It was late by the time they reached Minot, so they stopped in a motel for the night. They hadn’t expected this job to take more than a few hours, but they always kept a spare change of clothes and toiletries in the car just in case. Wrench waited in the room while Numbers went to the gas station across the road to get something for dinner. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was half past nine, hardly late, but he was already exhausted. He looked down at his hands, flexing the fingers several times. On top of everything else, he hadn’t stopped thinking about Tripoli’s threats for weeks. He’d had dreams in which someone held him down, restraining his arms, and he tried to call for Numbers desperately, tried to warn him about some impending danger, but his partner couldn’t hear him. Sometimes, a girl with her face covered by her hair and bloodied hands would appear in the dream, and she would follow him around, getting closer and closer each time he turned around, but never quite catching up with him.

Leaning forward, he twisted his right arm behind his back and tried to unlace his boots with his left hand. Okay, that wasn’t so difficult. Then he tried to lace them again with his left hand only, which proved harder than he thought. He tried twisting the laces a few different ways, but he must be doing something wrong because the strings just slipped between his fingers. Frustrated, he gave up and took off his boots. He pulled the book he was reading from his duffel bag and made himself comfortable. Numbers came back a while later with a couple of greasy paper bags.

 _‘They didn’t have any string cheese left, sorry’_ Numbers said after putting the bags down. _‘Still reading that brick?’_

Wrench looked at him over the pages. _‘R-O-B-B S-T-A-R-K is a moron.’_

_‘I don’t know who that is, but if you say so, I trust your judgment.’_

Wrench ate his sandwich while holding the book in one hand while his partner zapped the channels on the TV. Wrench tried to immerse himself in the novel to not have to think about all the stuff in his head. But his mind kept going back to Vanessa Harper, Tripoli’s threats, Numbers’ strange behavior that was increasingly worrying him, and so on. And yes, maybe he should have packed a book with a lot less violence and brutality if he wanted a healthy distraction from all his problems. He saw Numbers leaving for the bathroom at one point. He put the sandwich wrapping aside and leaned back in the pillows. It’s okay, he thought. It’s just fiction, it’s not real.

And then he reached that part in the book about Jaime Lannister getting his hand chopped off by a mercenary.

He went back over the paragraph again, to make sure that he’d read right. He stared at the page for a moment, and then he threw the book across the room.

He realized that it must have made a really loud noise when he _felt_ the thud it made when colliding against the wall. It was a pretty heavy book, alright. Numbers darted out of the bathroom like someone was dying, a towel wrapped around his waist and blotches of shampoo still smudging his hair.

“What the fuck?!” It wasn’t difficult to read the exclamation on his partner’s mouth, mostly because Wrench already knew what he was going to say before he said it.

Wrench flustered and pointed at the infuriating tome on the floor. _‘That book pissed me off.’_

Numbers looked at him like he couldn’t believe him. _‘Okay, nerd. Hope you’re feeling better now.’_ And then he went back into the bathroom to finish his shower.

 

If the first day of that job had been long and full of snooping around and chatting with strangers, the second one was hectic and fast-paced. That was how it worked when they had to find somebody: the first phase consisted of meticulously digging for clues, but once you had done your homework and knew where to look, the whole thing became ridiculously easy. Numbers had woken up early and spent the better part of an hour looking through the newspaper ads of the Minot metropolitan area, but he hadn’t found any business that matched the description that Keith had given them. Unless Jasper had listed his ‘company’ under a fake name, in which case Numbers would have no other choice than to check them out personally one by one. Fortunately, there weren’t all that many moving companies operating in the area. He’d started calling each one of them as soon as business hours had started, but after very brief conversations with very jolly receptionists, he deemed all of them legit businesses. So, not what he was looking for. Either Jasper’s company wasn’t advertised in the yellow pages; or he wasn’t in Minot at all. In which case, they had hit a dead end in their search.

 _‘I think we’ve hit a dead end’_ he told Wrench after ending his last call. They were having breakfast in a diner. Well, it was actually closer to a brunch at that time. The newspaper was spread on the table and the ink on some of the words was smudged with coffee and butter stains.

 _‘We could drive around for a bit, maybe we’ll see something in the streets’_ Wrench suggested.

_‘What’s the point? It’s not in the local ads, I don’t think he’s even operating in this city.’_

_‘Think about it. If this moving company is a scam like that guy believed, do you think he would advertise himself in official records? No, he’s probably running his business underground, catching customers through fishy means.’_

Come to think of it, that kind of made sense. _‘Agree. It’s worth a shot.’_

An hour and a half later, they were driving around a residential area when Wrench saw something while turning around a corner that made him stop the car suddenly and turn around. They both stepped out of the car and watched the scene unfolding in front of them with baffled expressions on their faces.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Numbers said.

A white van was parked in front of one the houses, the letters ‘HOT BLEEP MOVERS’ hastily written on the side with sticker letters that were beginning to fall apart. Its back door was raised open and an assortment of furniture and electronics could be seen stacked inside. Only, they had been thrown into the van with no regard to fragility or space management. And very conveniently, all the cargo consisted of expensive electronics, a couple of paintings, or shiny furniture that looked brand new but didn’t take up much space. No old couches with permanent stains or bookshelves with scratched corners. Numbers had to admit, it was actually sort of clever. He’d heard of it, robbers that went inside a house while the owners were away at work by disguising themselves as plumbers or electricians or any other service. That trick allowed them to ransack the place in broad daylight and nobody who saw them suspected a thing. And then the owners would come back from their 9-to-5 to find their house burglarized and the neighbors wouldn’t be of any help.

A short, scrawny man in a grey jumpsuit came out of the house, dragging an expensive-looking armchair down the driveway, paying no mind to the fact that he was scraping the lustrous wooden legs on the gravel. The armchair was most likely part of a set, but the guy couldn’t be bothered to drag the heavier pieces of furniture to the van.

“You know, those things fetch a better price if you sell the whole lot together” Numbers said. The guy jumped, startled, and dropped the armchair. Numbers smirked at him. “Hi, Jasper. We’re from Fargo.”

Jasper looked at them with shock like a deer in the headlights. “Oh, fuck” he said.

And without another word, he turned on his heel and took off running.

Numbers growled. “Oh my God, are fucking serious?” He gave Wrench a nod and they darted off after the burglar.

Jasper didn’t look like much, but damn if he wasn’t fast. He sidetracked them through the backstreets, and at one point Numbers began to consider that he really ought to do more cardio. And maybe cut down on the cigarettes a bit. After a few minutes, just as he was starting to feel like his lungs were on fire and his joints were melting, Wrench broke on a sprint and caught up with their target. Numbers braced himself on a streetlight to catch his breath and gave his partner a mental thumbs-up as he watched him tackle Jasper to the ground like a ravenous cheetah. Bless Wrench and his strict workout regime.

 _‘Nice catch, tiger’_ Numbers signed as he came over. Wrench has holding Jasper down on the floor, twisting his arms behind his back in a tight grip and pressing his face against the ground.

“Guys, guys, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else” Jasper said. He struggled underneath Wrench, trying to get out. “Let me go, you fucking animal!”

“Shut up!” Numbers shouted. He punched Jasper in the face. “That’s for making me run after you, jackass.” He fixed back tousled his hair with a hand. “Now let’s talk business. It looks like you’ve got a pretty sweet enterprise going on here, with this whole ‘moving’ business. Now, I assume you haven’t been doing it for long, because you can only rob so many houses with a rickety van and a half-assed disguise before the cops in the area start seeing a pattern. But I bet you’ve made a pretty penny so far, selling other people’s belongings. So unless you have a really crazy lifestyle, or you’re a really shitty burglar, you should have enough money by now to pay up what you owe Fargo, plus interests. Am I correct?”

Jasper huffed and grumbled, his face going red. “You’re correct.”

“Well, then. Take us to your secret lair, Robin Hood.”

 

At least Numbers didn’t have to worry about Jasper blowing out all his earnings on lavish items, because the guy was living in the same storage unit where he kept all the stolen goods before selling them. They hadn’t bothered to go back for Jasper’s van, and in a few hours or less someone would find it the way they had left it and call the police. They could have gone back for it and to reclaim the rest of the stolen goods if they had wanted to, but screw it, Numbers thought, they didn’t have time for that shit. Also, it felt kind of satisfying to screw Jasper a little bit more by denying him his last pile of loot. The worm would have to accept that his days as CEO of Hot Bleep Movers, Inc. were over.

Jasper took a metal toolbox from behind a sleeping bag and a pile of DVD players on the floor and passed it to Numbers timidly. Wrench was looming over him the whole time, making sure he didn’t do anything funny. Numbers opened the toolbox, which was full of stacked bills. He started counting them and took his sweet time doing so just to mess with the other guy.

“Is that enough?” Jasper asked when it looked like he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Mmm-hmm” Numbers nodded approvingly. “I admire your initiative and perseverance, Jasper, really. Now if only you put all that energy to better use, you wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.” He closed the box and carried it under his arm. “Let’s get going.”

“So that’s it? Are we good?” Jasper asked.

Numbers thought about it for a moment. “Actually, there’s one more thing…”

 

The detour took them over an hour, but the ride back to Fargo was going to be long enough, so Numbers decided that a little bit more wouldn’t make much of a difference. He was feeling in a magnanimous mood today, so instead of stuffing Jasper in the trunk of the car, they let him ride in the backseat. They didn’t even tie him up, although Numbers kindly reminded him that both himself and his partner were armed and wouldn’t doubt to shoot him if he made any sudden moves. To his great surprise, Jasper sat obediently in the back of the car and kept his mouth shut the whole ride.

They stopped in another small town. They parked in a dark empty lot and walked two blocks until they reached a shop with a faded sign that read ‘MARVIN’S PAWN & JEWELRY’.

“Is this the place?” Numbers asked.

“Dude, this is a waste of time, I bet she’s all forgotten abo–” A nod from Numbers, and Wrench cut off Jasper’s whining by smacking him on the back of the head. “Ouch! Rude, man!”

The three of them walked inside the cramped shop. Wrench was standing behind Jasper, breathing down his neck, while Numbers was at the front, looking at the items on display with curiosity. On the other side of a bulletproof glass, an aging black man in an argyle sweater and a trilby hat was sitting on a plastic chair, engrossed in a football game that he was watching on a portable TV behind the counter.

“Hello” Numbers said.

The man behind the glass dazed out of his game, and turned to look at his unexpected customers. “Oh. Didn’t hear you come in.” He stood up, stretching out his shoulders a little, and cleared his throat. “Welcome to my humble shop, how can I help you?”

Numbers smiled and patted Jasper’s back, feeling the other man squirm under his touch. “I believe this young fella here sold you a golden locket a few days ago. It had the initials ‘B. W.’ engraved, I think? Well, he was in a deep state of intoxication when he made that transaction and he regrets it very much. Don’t you, Jasper?” He squeezed Jasper’s arm extra hard for emphasis.

“Yeah- yes. Very.” Jasper stuttered.

The black man (Marvin, presumably) frowned and looked at the trio with suspicion. “Well… I’m sorry to hear that, but we don’t really do refunds here.”

“He really, really wishes to get that locket back” Numbers insisted, still smiling. “So much, that he’s willing to repurchase it even at a higher price than what he originally sold it for. Just pretend he’s a completely different customer if it makes you feel better.”

“No, no need for that.” Marvin said, shaking his head with bewilderment. “No funny business?”

“None at all. If you’ve still got the necklace, we’ve got the money.”

“Golden locket, you say? With the letters B and W?”

“That’s right.”

Marvin held up a finger. “Hold on a second.” He went behind a back door, and came back a minute later, holding a golden chain with a round medallion hanging from his fingers. “Is this it?”

Numbers leaned forward and examined the necklace closer through the glass. “That’s the one.”

“That will be three hundred” Marvin said.

Numbers nudged Jasper, who looked absolutely crestfallen as he pulled out his wallet and slipped six fifty bills through the gap under the glass. Marvin counted the money, and put the locket in a little box that had two latches, one on each side of the glass. Numbers opened the window on his side, took the necklace, and put it away safely in the inner pocket of his coat.

“Good evening” he said to Marvin as they walked out. “Nice place, by the way.”

“Come back whenever you want” Marvin answered without looking back. His attention had already returned to the game in the TV. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Don’t drop the ball, you dipshit!”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Numbers said as they walked back to the car. It was pitch dark already, and the alleys were eerily quiet. “You even made a good deed today after all. Doesn’t it feel great?”

“What happens now?” Jasper asked nervously.

“Now we go back to Fargo,” Numbers replied. “And once we’re there, you’re going to explain to our bosses why you’ve been such a sneaky little bitch, and you’re going to apologize profusely for what you did.”

Jasper didn’t say anything. He just kept walking, looking straight ahead.

Numbers should have seen it coming. He had gotten complacent and underestimated the guy.

He was digging in his pocket for the car keys, when behind him he heard Jasper start making hacking noises. He looked over his shoulder and saw the small guy doubled down, his shoulders convulsing like he was having spasms. It was very dark in that lot, but he thought Jasper looked like he was about to lose his lunch. Behind Jasper, Wrench was standing, asking him with his eyes what he should do.

“What’s gotten into you?” Numbers asked with irritation.

“Not… feeling… so good” Jasper coughed. Okay, he definitely sounded like he was about to throw up.

Still trying to find his damn keys, Numbers signed one-handed a sort of ‘hold him down’. Wrench crouched down to take a closer look at Jasper in the dark. That’s when their hostage saw his opening. In the blink of an eye, he twisted around, punched Wrench in the throat, and took the gun from the back of his pants.

Numbers went to grab his own gun, but he found the barrel of his partner’s pistol pointing at him before he could react. “Don’t move!” Jasper shouted. His jittery and fearful demeanor was all but gone, and now his eyes had the crazy look of a cornered animal. He moved aside to put some distance between the two enforcers and himself, the gun trained on Numbers the whole time. Wrench was grabbing his own throat, wheezing a little.

“Okay, Jasper,” Numbers said softly, trying to sound reasonable. “Calm down. You’re overreacting. Let’s talk about this.” He tried to take one step forward, but that only made Jasper cock the hammer of the gun loudly.

“I said don’t move!” Jasper screamed. “Fuck you! I’m not an idiot! I know exactly what’s going to happen to me once we go back to Fargo! If I’m dead either way, why should I go willingly to the slaughterhouse? I’d rather take my chances right now with you two assholes!”

Numbers desperately tried to fire up the analytical part of his brain and come up with a plan to get out of that situation. Wrench was on the brinks of Jasper’s field of view, so he tried to get closer while the other guy wasn’t looking. Jasper saw him and turned to point the gun at him instead. “Don’t!”

The moment he saw the gun was pointing at his partner, Numbers’ capability for rational thinking went out the window.

“Don’t fucking point at him.”

“So that’s it, huh?” Jasper chuckled and took a step closer to Wrench, the gun pointed directly to the center of his chest due to their height difference. “Make a sudden move and I’ll fucking kill your friend. I’m serious!”

Numbers thought of all the different ways he was going to murder this sleazy son of a bitch once he got his hands on him. He saw Wrench glance down at the gun, and then nod at him ever so slightly, and he knew what he had to do.

“Nicole was right about you.” He said coldly. “You’re a fucking wimp.”

Jasper looked away from Wrench and glared at him. “What? What the fuck do you know about Nicole?”

“Oh, she gave us a detailed list of all the ways you’re a fucking loser” Numbers sneered. “You should see her now, she’s so much better off without you.” Jasper was seething now, not even paying attention to Wrench anymore, and his hand was shaking a bit. Numbers considered it for a moment, and decided to go all or nothing. He knew just what to say to push the guy over the edge. “And man, she’s a beast in the shack.”

Jasper roared, making a move as if to physically attack Numbers, and Wrench took advantage of the distraction to take the gun from his hand. He used it to strike Jasper in the head with such force that he knocked him square to the ground. Numbers jumped on the bastard, sitting on his legs, and punched him before he could react. And again. And again. Then he drew his own gun and shot him once in the chest in twice in the head.

Overkill, yes. But nobody threatened his partner’s life and lived to tell the tale.

Nobody.

“Why did you have to do that,” Numbers growled, standing up. “Why the fuck did you have to do that?!” He kicked the dead body on the ground. “I was feeling generous today! For the first time in ages, I wasn’t feeling like such a shitty human being! Why did you have to go and ruin it! Fucking idiot!”

Wrench grabbed him by the shoulders to stop him. Numbers didn’t try to resist. He was so tired.

 _‘We need to clean this up and leave. Now.’_ Wrench signed.

Another day they had survived; and another body to get rid of as proof of it. But then again, that was how things always ended up for them, wasn’t it?

 

Nicole looked very surprised to see her bearded benefactor back at her door the following morning. Numbers guessed that she hadn’t expected to ever see him again. She was still in her pyjamas, her hair tied up in a messy bun.

Numbers dangled the gold necklace in front of her face and smiled faintly. “I think this is yours.”

Her gawked at him, looking at the necklace like she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Oh my… Woah” She took it gently and pulled it closer to her chest, tracing the engraved letters with her thumb lovingly.  “Wow, thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

The look of gratitude on her face was making him uncomfortable. “It’s fine.” He said.

“How the hell did you even find it?” She asked.

“Pure luck, really. I figured that Jasper would try to sell your trinkets, so I asked around in a few pawn shops. Turns out that a guy a few towns over remembered him.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Exactly how long were you looking for my ex-boyfriend?”

“I had to drive across the state to meet up with someone anyway, it was no trouble. Like I said, it was pure chance.” He explained, speaking a bit too quickly. She looked even more suspicious. “B. W.?” He asked to change the subject.

“Yeah” she smiled sadly. “Barbara Warren.” She didn’t elaborate, but the look in her eyes said it all.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay” she gave him a smile of reassurance, and clasped the necklace around her neck. “I, uh, I need to get ready for work.”

Numbers stared at that golden glimmer that reflected the sunrise light, his mind drifting miles away from there. “Sure. I’ll get going.”

“Hey, by the way. Did you manage to find Jasper?”

He realized after a few seconds that he was zoning out. He looked up at Nicole, who was still waiting for an answer.

“N-no,” he mumbled. “No, sadly, nobody could tell us where to find him. We heard he’d gone to Chicago. He’s probably worming his way into some other poor girl’s life as we speak.”

Her eyes pierced into him for a few seconds, and she didn’t say anything. In that moment of silence, looking at her face, Numbers knew that _she_ knew he was lying. He found himself holding his breath as he waited for her response.

“Yeah,” she said flatly. Her face showed no emotion. “Probably.”

 

 _‘What did she say?’_ Wrench asked him when he returned. He was leaning back against the car, his ankles crossed on top of each other casually.

Numbers walked up to him, and Wrench uncrossed his legs to make room for him to wedge in the space between them. Numbers fitted himself in there and Wrench put his hands on his hips softly. _‘I think she believed me. She was just happy to get her mother’s necklace back to ask too many questions.’_

Wrench nodded. _‘What about Fargo? Did you tell them about what happened last night?’_

 _‘Yes’_ Numbers sighed. _‘They weren’t very happy about it, but they implied that the ending result would have been basically the same if we’d taken him back alive. I think Watkins was pissed that he didn’t get to kill the guy himself more than anything.’_

Wrench nuzzled his cheek briefly, giving him a feather-light kiss before leaning back again. _‘So it’s all good.’_

_‘It’s all good.’_

They stood there together for a moment, basking in the sun and breathing each other’s air.

 _‘Can I drive?’_ Numbers asked. _‘I think it’ll clear my head.’_

 

The drive back always seemed longer somehow. Maybe because on the way back they didn’t have a mission to focus on, only a clear road and a lot of stuff to think about. And without the possibility of signing to his partner while driving, Numbers was left alone with his thoughts and only the crackling of the radio to give him company. Numbers turned the dials, trying to find a radio station that was halfway decent. The winter sun was shining bright from the east, illuminating the snowy fields that surrounded them and hitting Numbers right in the eyes. He regretted having forgotten his sunglasses back home before leaving. He blinked to relieve the itching of his eyes and tried to relax.

_“Good morning, North Dakota! This is Ian Amsel, firing up this beautiful morning with the hottest news and the best tunes! Not necessarily in that order, ha! Hey, is it me, or is it unreasonably warm for this time of year? I think we’re headed towards a blooming strawberry spring this year, folks! And you know what they say ‘bout that: don’t trust it! You know this beautiful warm weather ain’t gonna last long, so I would keep my long johns close by, folks! You don’t wanna get caught unprepared by one of our infamous blizzards! Anyway. Do you know what day it is, my awesome listeners?”_

In the passenger seat, Wrench was playing snake on his Nokia to pass the time. Numbers had bought him a phone basically for situations like this one; Wrench tended to get bored quickly in the car if he wasn’t driving. After all, it wasn’t like Wrench had a lot of people he could be texting. Except his partner, but they already spent most of their whole existence together.

_“That’s right! Today is our ‘meet the ordinarily extraordinary folk next door’ day of the month! Oops, I messed it up, it’s ‘extraordinarily ordinary’… or is it? Bear with me, guys, it’s almost ten in the morning and I haven’t had my daily reindeer steak yet!”_

Is it just me, Numbers thought, or is this radio host a total lunatic? Bleh, whatever. A red Chrysler passed them by and Numbers wondered briefly if what they said about red cars getting pulled over more often was true.

 _“And today we have a very special guest,”_ the broadcaster said. _“State tennis champion and academic prodigy, Vanessa Harper. It’s so good to have you with us, Vanessa!”_

_“I’m so happy to be here today, Ian! First I’d like to send lots of kisses and hugs to my parents, for always supporting me and believing in me. Love you, mom and dad! And also, a shot out to Wes and Grady from Cass County, for helping me find myself and find peace of mind during bad times. So if you’re hearing this, you guys rock!”_

Numbers turned the wheel at very last second and narrowly avoided a frontal collision against a delivery van that was coming at them in the opposite direction. The car swerved towards the side of the road and went right through the curb and into an open field as he slammed his foot on the brake. The tires screeched on the dirt and the car jerked and bumped a couple of times before stopping abruptly. Only when it was over and the world ceased to spin did Numbers notice the scream that had escaped his lips. He stared in shock at the snowy field in front of the windshield, his breath coming out in shallow gasps. He could feel the burn of the seatbelt on his left shoulder and the whiplash in the back of his neck. Looking down, he saw Wrench’s arm extended across his chest, a protective barrier against the dangerous outside world.

Numbers’ fingers wrapped around his partner’s arm automatically. He felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. Then it was all very, very quiet. The engine was humming and the radio was whizzing with static.

The radio.

Like a madman, he shrugged Wrench’s arm off his chest and leaned forward to the console panel. He started tuning the dials up and down, trying to locate the godforsaken station responsible for their accident, to no avail. He was aware that Wrench was looking at him like he had lost his mind.

His partner grabbed him by the shoulders and forcefully made him stop. Numbers was afraid of looking at him. Wrench forced him to. He looked livid, and Numbers couldn’t blame him.

_‘WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?’_

Numbers didn’t really have an answer to that. He opened his mouth helplessly, and suddenly felt himself overcome by a wave of nausea. He gagged, and practically tore the seatbelt off to get out of the car.

He braced himself on the roof of the vehicle for support and bent down. He dry heaved for a few seconds, but not much came out. Wrench put a hand on his shoulder, gentler than what he’d been expecting, and rubbed circles up and down his back. Numbers pressed his cheek against the cold metal and closed his eyes. Something akin to a sob escaped his lips.

Eventually he pulled himself together and dared to look at Wrench. He still looked mad as hell, but there was worry in his eyes too. He raised his eyebrows at Numbers and made demanding gestures with his hands, still waiting for an explanation. Numbers didn’t know what to say. How did you even begin to explain something like that? What was he going to say, that he had hallucinated a dead girl’s voice on the radio at the worst possible moment? It sounded plausible, and it was the only explanation he was going to admit himself. He’d hardly slept the previous night; or the nights before that for that matter. But saying something like that would very possibly result in Wrench forcing him to make an appointment in the nearest mental hospital.

He rubbed his fist on his chest on circular motions, his face the epitome of repentance. _‘I’m sorry.’_

Wrench made an angry sound, a kind of stifled roar that showed all his frustration. It was often a bit unnerving to others whenever Wrench made an unintentional noise with his throat, like he sounded wrong, defective. Not to Numbers. Wrench’s arms jerked spasmodically, like he didn’t know whether to read him the riot act or just punch him. And then he stomped out to Numbers and enveloped him in a crushing hug.

Numbers froze for a moment before relaxing. The squeezing pressure against his limbs was soothing in a way, like a flush of hot water. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He murmured against his partner’s chest. He heard another car passing down on the road, unmistakably slowing down at the sight of their stranded vehicle, and Numbers held his breath. The car sped up again and moved along, forgetting about the two weirdoes hugging in the middle of a field.

Wrench took the keys from him and forbid him from driving the rest of the way, but it wasn’t like Numbers was going to fight him on that. Numbers was terrified that they’d have to call a tow truck, but thank God the car still seemed to function, albeit it was still making some weird noises. Numbers switched off the radio and refused to turn it on again.

Later that night, when Wrench was fast asleep, Numbers extricated himself from underneath his arms as gently as possible and went to the kitchen. Without turning the lights on, he took the old portable radio from the top of the fridge. Wrench had bought it for him on his birthday years ago. It had a cassette player and two round metallic speakers that looked like a pair of arthropod eyes. He sat down in the dark and fiddled with the dials using the streetlight coming in from the window to guide him. He didn’t know what he was trying to do, but he needed to know. He thought he remembered the exact frequency. But when he tried to tune into it, the radio only picked up static. He stayed there for a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour, and in the end he gave up. He went to put the radio back where it was, and that’s when he heard a dog barking down the street, followed by the loud sound of a car driving away.

He rushed to the window, but he couldn’t see anything from that side of the building. He stayed by the window for a long time, watching the street below, but he didn’t hear anything else.


	6. Exhalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shadow on the wall.

Numbers knocked twice on the door and waited. “Come on in”, he heard on the other side, and he entered. Carlyle was sitting at his desk with his nose buried in a thick dossier. To his left there was a mountain of paperwork separated in three neat piles, and to his right, two open laptops that he glanced back to every now and then. His left index finger went down the lines of text of the dossier as he read, while his right hand took notes on a small pad simultaneously. Numbers closed the door behind him and approached the desk. On the wall behind the desk, Carlyle’s latest decorative acquisition, a golden clock in the shape of an eight-point star, clacked slowly. Numbers cleared his throat. Without even raising his eyes from the papers, Carlyle put down his pen and extended his hand in a demanding gesture. Numbers fished out a bunch of receipts from his pocket and deposited them in Carlyle’s hand. His boss scanned them briefly before pulling out a folder from one of the drawers in his desk. He stapled the receipts to one of the pages, scribbled down a couple of notes in the margins, and put the folder away.

“How was the trip?” Carlyle asked, typing something on one of the laptops.

Numbers resisted the urge to rub his shoulder, where a bruise had already formed from the seatbelt burn of the accident.

“Uneventful.”

The administrative shot an unimpressed look at him over his eyeglasses. “I wouldn’t call dispatching your mark prematurely because the situation got out of control ‘uneventful’.”

“When do things ever go exactly as planned in this job?” Numbers tried to defend himself. “I’m just a guy, I can’t predict everything that happens.”

“Of course not. If you could, you’d be the one sitting behind this desk.”

Numbers bit back his smartass retort. He didn’t think Carlyle would appreciate it. Instead, he said: “Anything else you need from me?”

Carlyle tapped his pen on the table pensively. “Well, there’s this warehouse downtown…” The phone on the desk started ringing. “Hold on,” he said, picking it up. His face crumpled. Whatever he was hearing at the other end of the line, it didn’t please him. “What? Again? Why do they always wait until the last minute to inform me when these things happen? I don’t have time for this right now.” He listened for a few more seconds, tapping his pen on the table impatiently. “No, don’t call Brooks, he has no clue of how these things work. Leave it to me. And the next time, call me before the problem escalates to this magnitude level.” He hang up and looked up back to Numbers.

“Um,” Numbers said.

Carlyle kept tapping his pen on the table, a rhythmic pitter-patter that sounded like a metronome. His critical eyes surveyed the henchman in front of him for a few seconds.

“Why did you take a detour?” He asked out of the blue.

Numbers was taken aback by the oddball question. “What?”

“The receipts. It says you stopped for gas yesterday morning on the way back. But I know that you had a full tank when you left, and considering the distance to Minot, you should have had enough fuel for the whole trip. It doesn’t add up. Unless you took a long and unnecessary detour. You think I don’t notice those things?” Carlyle leaned forward on the desk. “So, why the spontaneous change in itinerary?”

Numbers opened his mouth to say something, but the ringing of the telephone interrupted him before he could speak. Carlyle rolled his eyes. “Hold on.” He pressed the receiver against his ear and quit staring at Numbers for a moment. “What now? Yes, I’m aware that the stocks have been declining fast over the last few months, _thank you,_ ” he said with condescension to the person on the phone. “What do you want me to do about it? No. No, absolutely not. We’ve talked about this. Don’t call me again unless you actually have a solution, I’m a busy man.” That said, he put down the receiver rather harshly. He sighed and gave his full attention back to Numbers. “Well?”

Numbers swallowed. “We got lost.”

“Lost?”

“It’s been a while since the last time I went to Minot. I got the roads mixed up.”

Carlyle watched him for a long moment. “Well, in that case–”

The door opened unexpectedly, and the two of them turned to see who was interrupting their meeting. A short man poked his head out the door, and his eyes widened when he realized that Carlyle was not alone in his office. “Sorry, boss,” he said apologetically. “About that thing we talked about yesterday, I just had a couple of questions before we leave for–”

“Not now, Rafferty” Carlyle said angrily. Rafferty stammered an apology and quickly disappeared, closing the door behind him.

“People around here have no manners” Carlyle commented. “As I was saying. I suggest you relearn to read a goddamn map. Fuel is expensive, you know. And we already have enough meatheads working for us, I only keep you around because you’re one of the few ones who actually has a brain.”

Numbers kept his mouth shut and put on a little smile of compliance. He was used to receiving reprimands with a dash of veiled threats whenever he did something that his bosses didn’t like. He’d been hearing the same shit for so many years that those intimidation techniques didn’t affect him much at this point. But he wasn’t naïve enough to think that the stoic accountant in front of him was all bark and no bite.

His relationship with Carlyle was a confusing one. The bald bookkeeper had started working for the syndicate when Numbers was little more than a snotty brat, not even old enough to drink yet. Carlyle had never treated him with anything close to kindness, he wasn’t a kind man. But beneath the paternalistic condescension and occasional admonitions, sometimes there was some sort of complicity between the two of them. Numbers had the feeling that Carlyle shared things with him that he didn’t tell the other enforcers of his rank. Like he was trying to teach him things, in his cold and calculating kind of way. And Numbers didn’t know what could be the reason for that. He hated not knowing what Carlyle’s angle really was. It had occurred to him that maybe Carlyle behaved like that with everyone behind closed doors, maybe to get them into a false sense of security, making them believe that they were special. So Numbers didn’t react to it, and tried not to think too much about it.

“I’ll keep it in mind” Numbers said.

Carlyle sighed. He looked disappointed. “I don’t actually enjoy having to keep tabs on everyone, you know. I’d rather spend my time doing something more productive.” He turned the page in his notepad and started scribbling away. “In a perfect world all of us would trust each other, everyone would do their jobs impeccably and by now we’d all be rich as balls. But we don’t live in a perfect world, do we?”

Numbers sneered. “You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself in this ‘imperfect’ world.”

Carlyle stopped writing. His gaze went up from the paper his employee very slowly. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold.

“Is there anything you’d like to say, Numbers? Perhaps something you’ve always wanted to say to my face but never had the courage to? Now it’s as good a time as any.”

Numbers bit his tongue. Carlyle looked like he was going to say something else, but his train of thoughts was interrupted by the noise of the telephone for a third time. This time the businessman closed his eyes and took a deep breath, like he was trying to restore his peace of mind with force of will alone. He locked eyes with Numbers as he answered.

“Yes?” He said. He listened for a few seconds, and his face seemed to go a pale all of a sudden. He avoided Numbers’ gaze, like the hitman’s presence in the room was now an inconvenience for him. His answers were short and his voice turned demure, barely more than a mumble. “Not sure. Maybe. No, I’d rather not. Yes, that works for me. Very well. I’ll handle it. No, not this number. I’ll reach out to you when it’s done.”

When he hung up, his face looked distraught. Numbers wasn’t sure of what he had just witnessed, but he couldn’t help the uneasy feeling in his gut, and suddenly the only thing he wanted to do was to get out of there.

Carlyle was looking down at the myriad of papers on the desk. Numbers thought about just leaving without another word, but he didn’t think that would be such a good idea.

“What would we do without you, Carlyle?” He said. He’d only meant to be nice, but it came out almost as a mockery.

His boss stared at him. A heavy silence fell upon them, and the gaudy eight pointed star-clock turned strikingly loud in the room.

“You know what,” Carlyle said eventually. “You can take the rest of the day off. And tomorrow, too. Get a whole night’s sleep, you look like crap.” He picked up his pen and resumed going through his documents. “You’re dismissed.”

As Numbers turned around to leave, he heard his boss say behind his back:

“I have great hopes for you, Numbers. Don’t let me down.”

Numbers stopped in his tracks for a second. Without turning back, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

In the hallway, he found Rafferty sitting on an armchair across the door to Carlyle’s office. The other enforcer hopped up from his seat when he saw Numbers leaving. “Wow, lotsa people getting sent to the principal’s office today. Well, looks like it’s my turn now.”

Numbers barely gave him a glance. “Watch what you say, he’s not in a good mood.”

Rafferty laughed. “Is he ever? See ya later, alligator.”

Numbers rolled his eyes and walked away. “Idiot.”

 

Wrench was waiting for him in the car, reading the newspaper. Numbers got in the driver’s seat, feeling the stark contrast of the heaters at full blast against the cold of the street.

 _‘I’m starting to think that Tripoli is not the one we should be worried about’_ he said to Wrench as soon as he got in.

 _‘What do you mean?’_ asked Wrench.

Numbers looked out the window to the front side of the syndicate building. Regular people walked past it every day having no idea of the crooked and nefarious business that took place behind its walls. He closed his eyes for a second, and saw the image of a golden eight-point star. _‘Maybe Tripoli is not the one who really pulls all the strings around here like everyone thinks.’_

Wrench nodded. Then he signed, rather solemnly, _‘Power resides where men believe it resides.’_

_‘What?’_

A small smirk appeared on Wrench’s face. _‘Nevermind.’_

Numbers smiled despite himself. “Nerd.”

 

Their geriatric neighbor from across the street was outside when Wrench came back from a run through the park that evening. Wrench stopped in the sidewalk, fiddling with the keys in the pocket of his padded vest, and looked over at the old man with suspicion. The fossil was just standing there, staring at a piece of paper taped to the streetlight like he was hypnotized by it. Wrench believed the old man’s name was actually Mr. Simmons, because the postman had once mistakenly left them a letter addressed to one R.W. Simmons. The address was written in sloppy handwriting so the postman must have confused the numbers from the other side of the street with their own. Numbers, the little shit, had of course put the letter on top of the steaming kettle to pry it open without breaking the seal and snoop what was inside –after making sure first that it wasn’t a letter bomb or that it wasn’t laced with anthrax, obviously. All there was inside the envelope were brochures of different retirement homes, and one of a funeral home to top it. The nerve. Numbers had thrown the whole thing in the trash, and nobody had come to their door asking about their missing mail afterwards.

The old man brought up a hand and touched the paper gingerly. He said something that Wrench couldn’t read since his wrinkled lips barely enunciated words anymore. Wrench almost ignored him and kept walking, but curiosity got the better of him. Bouncing on his sneakers, he crossed the street and approached the streetlight to see what had Grandpa so fascinated. The old man didn’t even seem to notice his presence.

The piece of paper taped to the streetlight was a missing person flyer. _HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?_ Wrench felt his stomach sink when he realized who was the person in the flyer. The text was written in capital letters over a weathered black and white picture of Vanessa Harper. The flyer was badly damaged after enduring about a month and a half of exposure to the elements. It was a miracle it was still there at all. Her family had even offered a five thousand dollar reward to whoever had any information about her whereabouts. Wrench looked down at the old man, who was trying fruitlessly to smooth out the creases in the paper with his purple-veined fingers. The man said something else and walked away, head hunched down. Wrench gazed at the flyer, wondering how he hadn’t noticed it before. He kind of wanted to tear it off and rip it to shreds right there. In the end, he just left it as it was. He didn’t have it in him to touch it, to be honest. It would fall apart on its own with the rain and snow eventually.

He went inside the apartment and started shedding his layers of insulated sportswear. Numbers was in the kitchen, chopping carrots on a wooden board. A large cooking pot was heating up on the stove, filled with simmering broth. Numbers was seemingly transfixed in his task and it took him a moment to notice his partner’s presence.

 _‘You’re making stew.’_ Wrench said upon entering.

Numbers put down the kitchen knife to sign. _‘Yes, captain obvious, I’m making stew.’_

Wrench frowned. _‘You never make stew. You complain that it’s too time consuming and you don’t even like it that much.’_

 _‘I didn’t have anything else to do, so I thought why not’_ Numbers replied. _‘Go take a shower, you stink.’_

The stew wasn’t half bad after all, but Wrench couldn’t help watching his partner closely the rest of the evening.

Later, Wrench woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. Numbers’ side of the bed was cold. He rolled over and saw light coming in from the gap under the door. He padded over to the kitchen, where he found Numbers sitting at the table, staring at nothing. There was an untouched mug of tea in front of him.

Numbers turned sideways, surprised to see him there. _‘Go back to bed, I’ll be back in a minute.’_

Wrench sat down next to him and took a whiff at the mug. It was chamomile tea. He didn’t even know they had chamomile tea in the apartment _. ‘Your tea is cold’_ he pointed out.

Numbers blinked. He took a sip from the mug and frowned. _‘I like it better this way.’_

Wrench gave him a ‘yeah, right’ look. He poked Numbers in the belly playfully. _‘What’s wrong?’_

_‘Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.’_

Wrench decided to not press the issue. His hand went up his partner’s arm, caressing the lines of tattoos, and came to rest in the crook between neck and shoulder. Numbers closed his eyes and nuzzled into his partner’s hand.

Wrench grabbed Numbers’ chin gently and turned his face to make him look at him. _‘What are we going to do?’_ He asked very seriously.

Numbers knocked the tips of his two index fingers diagonally. _‘Be more specific.’_

_‘You know what I mean. We can’t keep going on like this. We have to do something about this situation.’_

_‘What the hell are you talking about? We’re fine. Things are back to normal.’_

_‘They are not. We are not fine. You are not fine.’_ Numbers looked away, like he didn’t want to hear more from this conversation, but Wrench grabbed his shoulder and forced him to look at him. _‘We used to be able to pretend that we were okay with all this. Not anymore.’_

Numbers glared at him. _‘What do you want from me?’_

Wrench dropped his hands on the table, feeling all the fight escape from his body. It was cold in the kitchen. He reached for the mug and drank from it. Numbers frowned at that but didn’t protest.

 _‘I want us to be on the same page’_ Wrench signed.

Numbers looked stunned by this. He cupped Wrench’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb tenderly.

 _‘You know we always are.’_ Numbers said. _‘For the important stuff, at least.’_ He rubbed his eyes and yawned. _‘I know sometimes it feels like everything sucks and life is shit, but it will pass. Trust me. Just give it time, and we’ll be back to normal.’_

Wrench didn’t really believe that, but he didn’t want to keep arguing when he knew they were not going to reach any common ground. Numbers was right; he didn’t know what he wanted. Well, he _did_ know, deep inside, but today was not the day he would outright say it.

 _‘Come back to bed’_ he said, almost pleading.

Numbers nodded. _‘In a second.’_ He grabbed the mug to take a drink and grimaced at the taste. “Ugh, gross.”

 

They spent most of the next day, as Numbers called it, ‘together, but separate’. In other words, they were physically in the same place but they didn’t actually interact much with each other. They had days like that from time to time. It wasn’t like Numbers was giving him the cold shoulder, but he acted distracted around Wrench and he clearly needed some space. It went unsaid that whenever Numbers had the day off, so did Wrench, so they spent the day coming up with things to do to keep themselves busy, from vacuuming the floors to cleaning their guns. Numbers grew more and more irritable with each passing hour, so at one point Wrench announced that he was going to run some errands at the hardware store just to get away from him for a while.

When he returned, he found Numbers perched on the open window in the living room, smoking a cigarette. A full basket of folded laundry was sitting on the couch. Wrench picked it up and put it away so it wouldn’t catch the smell of tobacco. Then he walked up to his partner and slapped his wrist. Numbers gave him an angry look, making an ‘o’ shape of pain with his mouth.

 _‘The whole apartment smells like smoke, idiot.’_ Wrench signed.

 _‘Give me a break. The window’s open’_ Numbers protested, but he grabbed an ashtray from the coffee table and put out the cigarette. It was almost finished anyway. With a lack of anything else to do, he sat down on the couch and turned on the TV.

Wrench swatted his hands to disperse the remaining smoke and closed the window. It was getting dark, and with the contrast of the lights inside the other apartments, he could see silhouettes moving behind the neighbors’ curtains. He glanced back at his partner. Numbers looked like a zombie, to put it mildly.

 _‘Do you want to go for a ride?’_ Wrench asked.

Numbers appeared confused by this proposition. _‘Right now? Where?’_

Wrench shrugged. _‘I don’t know. Wherever.’_

Wrench saw his partner’s chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. _‘Yeah, okay.’_

 

They didn’t talk, but Numbers looked visibly more relaxed after a while. Sometimes it felt good to forget about everything and just drive. Wrench took them through the outskirts of Fargo and into the countryside, a sea of snowy plains bathed in moonlight. They passed a couple of towns, but Wrench didn’t stop in them. He was not surprised to see his partner falling asleep in the passenger seat at one point, and although he wasn’t driving that fast in the first place, he slowed down a bit so the car wouldn’t bump around too much.

He didn’t fully realize where he was driving to until an hour later. He hadn’t planned on it. But in the end, he found himself driving straight towards Zapper’s house, like a moth to a flame. The road was completely empty, and when he took a curve, he saw the house emerge in front of his headlights, lonely and creepy between the dark trees. He parked on the side of the house, where the car couldn’t be seen from the road. He turned off the ignition but didn’t get up. Numbers looked so peaceful that he felt bad for waking him up. He waited inside the dark car for about fifteen minutes, until he decided he couldn’t wait any longer, and then he shook Numbers gently.

Numbers jolted awake, looking around groggily and confused. “…are we back yet?”

Wrench didn’t answer. Numbers rubbed his eyes and peered out the car window. When he realized where they were, his face went livid. He turned to Wrench, looking absolutely furious. _‘What the fuck are we doing here?’_

Wrench scratched the healed scabs on his knuckles absentmindedly. By then they were little more than tiny strips of slightly discolored skin. _‘There’s something that’s been bugging me for weeks since we killed Zapper. Like we didn’t finish the job.’_

_‘What are you on about? The fucker is dead. End of story. You need to stop obsessing about this.’_

_‘I can’t explain it. I just feel like there’s still something I have to do.’_

Numbers slammed his fist on the dashboard. _‘I DON’T want to be here.’_

Wrench didn’t budge. He gave Numbers an angry look and unfastened his seatbelt. _‘Fine. You can wait in the car if you want, but I’m going inside.’_

He slammed the car shut behind him. After putting on his work gloves and retrieving a flashlight from the trunk, he started walking towards the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Numbers scurrying to catch up with him as he put on his leather gloves, no doubt spitting out a litany of swearwords as he did so. The cottage looked eerie and uninviting in the dark, like the place was trying to warn them off to turn around and leave. It had only been a few weeks, but it already felt like the house had been abandoned for years. The beam of the flashlight showed a strip of police tape criss-crossing the front door. They ignored it and circled the house to go in through the back like they had done the first time. This time it was locked, so a very frustrated Numbers instructed Wrench to hold the flashlight still while he picked the lock. That was tedious and a bit annoying, but doable. He’d rather just smash the door and break in but he knew there was no way Wrench would let him do that so he didn’t even suggest it.

Once inside, Numbers reached out and turned the lights on, but Wrench slapped his hand and switched them off again.

 _‘I can’t see shit’_ Numbers complained, closing his eyes in pain at the blinding beam of light directly on his face.

Wrench had some difficulty holding the flashlight and signing at the same time, so he put it down on a counter so it lit up the room horizontally. It cast large contrasting shadows on the walls behind their figures, like otherworldly entities, looming over them.

 _‘We can’t turn on the lights. The neighbors could see it.’_ Wrench pointed out.

_‘There’s three hundred yards of trees between us and the neighbors!’_

_‘Somebody could pass by on the road’_ he insisted.

Numbers threw his hands up in the air, giving up. _‘I suppose you didn’t think about bringing more than one flashlight?’_

Wrench gave him an apologetic look. _‘Sorry.’_ He looked around the room. The air was stale because the house had been closed down for weeks. But not, it was more than that. The darkness made the air around them feel dense and heavy, like they were inhaling more than dust and oxygen with each breath. ‘ _Do you feel it?’_

_‘Feel what?’_

_‘Don’t you feel like… bad vibrations in this place?’_

Numbers looked at him like he wanted to smack him. _‘What I feel is that if we leave so much as a single hair or footprint in this place, we’re absolutely fucked.’_

Wrench rolled his eyes. _‘The cops already registered this house.’_ He picked up the flashlight and waved his hand for Numbers to follow him.

He felt Numbers’ hand grab the hem of his jacket and not letting go. He turned around, raising an eyebrow.

 _‘You’re going to lose me in the dark if we don’t stay close, idiot’_ Numbers signed. _‘And stop pointing the damn flashlight on my face!’_

Wrench snorted. Yeah, right. He grabbed his partner’s hand instead and led him through the hallway. Numbers squeezed his fingers, and Wrench squeezed back.

He only vaguely remembered the layout of the house, so he tried a couple of doors until he found the living room. He stood in the middle of the carpet, slowly scanning the flashlight over the walls and furniture. The light fell upon the dark fireplace. Wrench remembered reading that in most cultures, the fireplace was always considered the focal point of energy in a house. The main source of warmth, life, and shelter. The one in this house looked as cold and empty as a tomb.

 _‘What exactly are we looking for?’_ Numbers inquired.

Instead of answering, Wrench knelt by the fireplace and put his hand on the cold stone. It was an enclosed fireplace, and the glass front was dirty and blackened, making it impossible to see what was inside. He twisted the rusty handle of the door, and after a bit of struggling, managed to get it open. On the inside, only a small amount of ashes remained between the iron grating. He poked at them with his gloved fingers.

 _‘Did you drag me all the way here just so you could draw shapes in the sand?’_ Numbers asked when he bothered to look in his direction.

Wrench put the flashlight on the floor and began to sign ‘shut up’ while his left hand remained in the ashes. He had barely raised his fingers to his mouth when he felt a sharp pain across his fingers. He yelped, flinging back his left arm. Numbers rushed to his side, knocking the flashlight with his foot. It rolled away under the couch, and with it went their only light source. They were engulfed by the darkness.

Wrench went completely still. It was pitch black, he could see no difference between having his eyes open or closed. He reached out in the dark, trying to find Numbers with his fingers, but he only grabbed empty air, and he began to breath heavily through his nose. After a few seconds of this torture, he felt Numbers take hold of both of his hands, holding tight. Numbers put his hand on the back of Wrench’s neck, silently instructing him to move with him. They shifted on the floor, moving closer to what Wrench assumed was the couch. He saw a small flicker of light darting underneath a flat surface, and after a moment they could see each other again.

 _‘Hey, it’s okay’_ Numbers signed, waving the flashlight around. They were both kneeling close to each other.

Wrench looked down at his left hand. The glove looked intact, but for a second it had felt like someone had slapped him with a hot iron. He flexed his fingers slowly.

Numbers put the flashlight down between them and looked at Wrench with a much softer look in his eyes. _‘We should leave. I don’t think this is healthy for either of us.’_

Wrench shook his head. _‘There’s something in this house. I know it. Something just grabbed me.’_

Numbers, and his ridiculously expressive face, turned into something else with the theatrical play of light and shadows they had in the room. First he blinked, like he was trying to process what Wrench had just said. Then his face darkened with a huge display of frustration. He punched Wrench’s arm. _‘Now is not the time to play stupid games.’_

_‘I’m serious! I felt something grab my hand! It hurt!’_

_‘You need to stop reading so much S-T-E-P-H-E-N K-I-N-G shit.’_ It was remarkable that Numbers bothered to spell the whole name given how quickly he was losing his patience. Wrench gave him a defiant glare, and Numbers rolled his eyes and held his hands up in surrender. _‘Fine. Since we’re already here and you insist on playing a midnight scavenging hunt, we might as well look for the ledger we couldn’t find the first time.’_

_‘Why? It’s not like we can give it back to Carlyle. It would be like confessing that we lied to his face.’_

_‘I didn’t say anything about returning it.’_

_‘Then why do you want to find it?’_

Numbers gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine. _‘Insurance.’_

And with that, Numbers helped Wrench back to his feet and pointed at the door. _‘You check this floor, I’ll go look upstairs. There’s a few places I missed last time.’_

Wrench shook the flashlight up and down, reminding his partner that they couldn’t actually separate due to practical reasons. Numbers answered this by producing a lighter from his pocket and sparking it up momentarily. _‘This will do.’_

Wrench didn’t like that idea, but he conceded. He glanced back to the fireplace, unable to stop thinking about what had just happened.

Numbers tapped him on the chin, drawing him out. Wrench tilted his head to the side and was surprised by a quick peck on the lips.

 _‘Be careful’_ signed Numbers, raising a stern finger at him.

_‘Yeah, you too. Try not to set the house on fire.’_

Numbers smirked and walked out the door. Wrench watched him go and disappear in the darkness.

 

Numbers crept up the stairs slowly. The steps creaked under his feet, and although he knew there was nobody around who could hear it except himself, it still made him nervous. His zippo only gave a small amount of light, so he couldn’t see the end of the corridor. He decided it was best to start with the rooms in the far end and make his way forward to the foot of the staircase. He started walking slowly, holding the lighter in front of his face. The only thing he could hear it was his own breathing.

“This is so stupid. I shouldn’t even be here” he said softly, just so he could hear anything over the creepy unnatural silence. “I just want to move on from this shit, not keep coming back to it… Stop talking to yourself, damn it, you sound like a crazy person.”

The flint wheel of the lighter quickly overheated, so he had to put it out for a second to ease the burning sensation on the pad of his thumb before lighting it up again. The hallway bent to the right after the first two doors. He felt his heart skip in his chest when he went around the corner and saw a light at the end of the corridor. There was someone else in the house.

“Shit” he jerked, and the lighter went off. Cursing, he reached for his gun and snapped the flint wheel of the lighter again, expecting one of Fargo’s henchmen to jump at him while he was vulnerable. Only, he didn’t see anyone when the flickering flame came to be again. Looking on, he realized that the light he was seeing was his own reflection in a mirror. He wanted to slap himself.

“Oh, fuck me sideways” he said drily. He had forgotten there was a full-body mirror in that corner, although for some reason it had been covered with fabric the day they had killed Zapper. The cops must have uncovered it while they registered the place and left it that way. As he came closer, his own image became clear. He stood in front of it, examining his own reflection in the dim orange light. He looked like an apparition from an old ghost tale. Blackbeard, The Pale Man In Black, holding a light like the Hermit from the Tarot cards. The pistol pointing at the ground added an anachronistic touch to it, though.

One of Numbers’ earliest memories was one of attending a wake. He didn’t remember who the deceased was, but he guessed he must have been a relative of his mother. He just remembered a dark house with candles and unfamiliar faces and that his clothes itched like crazy. All the mirrors in the house had been covered as it was tradition during the shivah. He would learn all the details about that ritual years later, but, back then, he had felt like there were monsters trapped inside the covered mirrors. And if someone took the drapes away, all the monsters would escape and try to hurt him. He vaguely remembered crying in a room full of people, and his mom trying to console him. That was also one of the last memories he had of her. It was odd to think that he must have a family out there somewhere, assuming that the dead guy had been related to his mother. But whoever they were, all those faceless mourners, they had never come back for him during all those years he had spent in foster care. They had never tried to find him or even checked if he was still alive. As far as he was concerned, they could all get fucked.

“You didn’t have enough with killing people for a living, no, you also had to turn it into a hobby” he whispered to the mirror. “What’s the matter, hookers didn’t give you what you wanted? They couldn’t fake it enough for you?” He laughed without a trace of humor. “No, you wanted something clean. Something pure. A dangerous gangster like you, with his mind set on one goal. She never stood a chance.” The hand holding the zippo began to shake, and the flame trembled, both in the physical world and in the illusive dimension on the other side of the glass. “I can’t fucking believe I once shook hands with you. Even if I did it sarcastically. Are you still watching me from the depths of hell, you perverted fuck?”

His eyes drifted to the corner of the mirror, where he saw a door open silently. In the blink of an eye, an obscure human-sized figure appeared in the reflection, crossing the hallway in a dash from one door to another, and disappeared with a thud.

Numbers turned around, gun raised. The hallway was quiet. To hell with being furtive, he was going to turn on the lights. There was someone else in the house, and he was going to take them out before they could hurt him or his partner. Never taking his eyes off the door that had just closed, he flipped the light switch on the wall to his right.

Nothing happened.

The lights were not working.

 _Are you fucking kidding me_ , he thought, hearing the rush of his own blood in his ears. He tried to bring his breathing under control to ease the palpitations on his chest. He wasn’t a big fan of close quarter fights, not even when he wasn’t shooting blind in the dark. He walked up to the door very slowly, his steps light and carefully placed to not make any noise. He shut off the lighter, letting the dark envelop him, and listened. When his eyes more or less adjusted and he could see basic shapes, he put his hand on the knob. He twisted it very slowly, and, gun ready, he flung the door open.

Nothing. No bullets to his chest, no goons jumping at his throat. It took him three tries with his trembling fingers to get the lighter working, and when the flame came up again, the sight of a storage closet greeted him. He now remembered searching through it weeks before and finding nothing but junk.

“Fuck, I guess I really need to get some sleep…” he muttered.

And then he felt someone pushing him from behind and shoving him inside the closet.

He hit the shelves face first, making a few boxes to fall down around him, and both the gun and the lighter slipped from his fingers. The door of the closet slammed shut. He was alone in the dark.

When he recovered from the initial shock and tried to open the door back again, the knob fell off on his hand. He was trapped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he fell down to his knees and started searching the floor with his hands desperately. “Where the fuck did they go?!”

A small noise swept through the claustrophobic space. It sounded like a whine, or a wheeze. Numbers froze. The sound came back again, this time more clear. He covered his own mouth with his hands and listened. The noise grew louder, and he couldn’t pretend that he was just imagining it. It sounded like somebody suffocating. It grew closer, and it was coming right from behind him. Like it was coming from inside the closet. But that was impossible, there was barely enough room in there for one person. He was alone in there.

The panting and wheezing assaulted his ears, close, impossibly close. Numbers squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a whimper. _Go away. Please go away._

The noise inhaled deeply, and a female voice spoke roughly, like it was drawing from her last dying breaths.

_“Please.”_

Numbers curled up on himself and refused to open his eyes. _Just go away._

_“Please. You don’t have to do this.”_

And then the ragged breaths became cries of agony. They pierced his ears like the cries of the Banshee, a nightmare that he couldn’t escape.

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Without warning, the door opened, and a light was shone on Numbers’ face. He bolted out of the closet like the devil himself was chasing him.

Wrench was all over him, asking him what he was doing in there, but Numbers didn’t have the mind to sign coherently. He took the flashlight from his partner’s hand and quickly scanned both ends of the hallway with it. Nothing. Looking back inside the closet, he spotted his handgun and the lighter peeking out from underneath a toppled shoe box. Looking over his shoulder at Wrench, he bent down, picked both items quickly, and shut the door with force. Wrench looked at him with confusion.

 _‘Did you see her?’_ Numbers asked with crude signing.

_‘Who?’_

_‘There’s somebody else in this house.’_

_‘I haven’t seen anyone’_ Wrench pointed to his face. _‘Why are you crying?’_

Numbers brought a hand up to his eyes. “What? I’m not–”

With a snap, the mirror in the hall toppled over, shattering into a million pieces. Numbers shouted, and Wrench grabbed his hand, drawing him away from the shards of glass all over the floor.

 _‘We have to get out here right now’_ Numbers signed. Without giving Wrench time to protest, Numbers yanked him through the hallway and down the stairs. He was racing, the only goal in his mind being to escape the house. The front door was closer, and they had to go through the living room to get there.

Wrench, tired of his nonsensical behavior, broke free from his grip and pushed him against the couch. _‘What’s up with you? What’s going on?’_

Numbers pulled himself upright on the couch, shaking his head. He couldn’t articulate his thoughts, he just wanted to get out. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He snapped his head towards a loud crack on the wall, and saw that hideous Felix the cat clock fall off its brackets and come down smashing to the floorboards. “FUCK!” Numbers curled up on the couch and covered his ears.

Wrench looked in the direction where his partner was looking and his eyes widened. He put himself between Numbers and the source of commotion, shielding him with his body. _‘Stay there’_ he signed over his shoulder. He approached the fallen clock carefully. Numbers sat up straight slowly, heaving deep breaths. Wrench directed the flashlight to a hole that had just been uncovered with the clock falling off the wall. Numbers saw Wrench put his hand inside the hole. For a second, Numbers had this mental image of his partner taking his arm out no longer having a hand attached to it, only a clean cut stump bleeding all over the carpet.

Wrench pulled out a book from the opening in the wall. He rotated it in his hand, inspecting it, and offered it to Numbers silently. Numbers gulped, and walked up to him on trembling legs.

Wrench put the book on his hand. It was a leather bound journal, fastened with a black string. Numbers opened it and sorted through the pages. Columns and columns, stating different quantities of money and assets, written down with crispy handwriting and mathematical accuracy.

Numbers put the journal under his arm. _‘I can’t believe it. It was here all along,’_ he sighed. _‘Of course it was here all along. At least we can go now.’_

Wrench shook his head. He made a ‘wait’ hand gesture and reached inside the hole again. This time he pulled out an ornate wooden box, about the size of an encyclopedia. The two hitmen locked eyes for a moment. With a sense a dread in his gut, Numbers unclasped the top of the box and opened it.

The inside of the box was lined with red velvet and separated into different slots. Inside the slots, there were a few small items. A button. A wristwatch. Some kind of ID card. A jeweled bobby pin. Beneath each one, there was a paper label with a name on it.

_Lilly Cynthia Hope Amber_

Numbers stared at them. When his brain figured out what those objects were, he dropped the box like it was on fire.

“Fuck. FUCK,” he turned around and grabbed the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be a decorative figure of a stag, and hurled it against the wall. Then he kicked an umbrella stand, sending it flying across the floor with a loud clang. Wrench just stood there and let him get it all off his chest without interruption.

While Numbers cooled down, his partner crouched down and gently gathered up the box and the scattered tokens.

 _‘He didn’t have time to finish the collection’_ Wrench said with a grim face, showing him the box. Numbers looked down, and noticed that one of the empty slots had a label that said _Vanessa_.

Numbers took the box and let his body slide down the wall to sprawl on the carpet. He felt like he hadn’t slept for ten years. There had been others apart from Vanessa Harper. Of course there were. This was not the kind of thing a man did once and then never again. This was a rite. An obsession. Numbers had contemplated the possibility before, but he had dismissed it to the back of his mind, simply because a part of him didn’t want to know. Now he had the truth staring at him in the face, and he couldn’t keep ignoring it any longer.

He picked up the wristwatch and took a closer look at it. It was a simple Swatch model, blue leather strap with a shiny coppery case. It was a small watch, perfect to fit around a female wrist. The glass was cracked and the hands had stopped moving. It had the name C. MENDELSSON engraved in the back. Numbers put it down and picked the card instead. It was a library card from Pittsburgh of one Hope McCormick, born in 1974. The photo on it had been scratched completely, to the point that the scratch marks bent down the plastic and went through the other side.

Wrench sat down next to him, offering his silent support. Numbers tilted his head to the side, giving his partner a glance. Wrench was crying, too.

Numbers twirled the card in his fingers, trying to remember when was the last time that Zapper could have been to Pittsburgh. He believed that Fargo had sent him to that city on a negotiation mission about six or seven years before. He remembered because they were going to send Jergen initially, but the Australian had broken his arm falling off a ladder that week, so they ended up sending Zapper instead. Jergen hadn’t stopped bitching about it for weeks.

Hope McCormick. Numbers pictured a mousey but still attractive girl, with curly hair and rimless eyeglasses. And then it hit him. That stupid journal of shitty poems he had found in the desk. The one about burying _Hope_ in the ground. It wasn’t meant to be metaphorical.

He shoved the box onto Wrench’s hands. _‘I’m going to be sick.’_

Wrench rose to his feet and darted out of the room as Numbers convulsed and tried to contain his retching. It was impressive how quickly he was back. A bucket was shoved under Numbers’ nose, and he let it all out.

 _‘I don’t think this night can get any worse’_ he signed once he was done. Wrench rubbed his shoulder reassuringly.

 _‘What do we do with all this?’_ Wrench asked.

Numbers took Carlyle’s ledger and put it inside his coat. He looked down at the wooden box for a moment, and signed, _‘Put that back where you found it.’_

Wrench gaped at him, baffled. _‘No way.’_

 _‘Do you want to keep a serial killer’s collection of mementos under our bed?’_ Numbers said. _‘I said put. It. Back.’_

Scowling, Wrench grabbed the box and crammed it into the gap in the wall. He went to pick up the clock like he was going to try to hang it up again, but Numbers stopped him. _‘No, leave it. It fell on its own. If they find the evidence, let them find it, but we were never here.’_

 

Wrench walked about twenty feet through the woods behind the house and emptied the contents of the bucket in a stream, feeling glad for once that he couldn’t see much in the dark. The lack of light didn’t do anything about the smell, though. Then he stomped the bucket until it broke into small pieces of plastic and buried them under a pile of dirt and dead leaves.

Numbers was huddled over in the passenger seat of the car with his eyes closed. He looked like he was asleep, but he opened his eyes when he heard Wrench come closer. He looked sickly pale, with small beads of sweat across his forehead.

 _‘Do we have sleeping pills at home?’_ Wrench asked after sitting himself behind the wheel.

_‘I think so.’_

_‘I think I know now what all those props in the basement were for.’_

Numbers frowned in confusion. _‘What?’_

_‘The arm casts. The wigs. The costumes. All that junk in the chest in the basement. I think that’s how he caught his victims. Think about it, most people aren’t dumb enough to go willingly with the first stranger that comes at them with some bullshit. But if you’re injured, people are more willing to help you. They’re more willing to trust you.’_

Wrench could picture it all as clear as a movie. Zapper, in the middle of a snow storm, with fake blood running down his head, screaming for help. A girl sitting at the bus stop sees him and rushes to help him. They’re the only ones in the street. Zapper tells her that he’s had a car accident and doesn’t know where the hospital is. He looks confused, disoriented. The girl helps him walk and tries to reassure him. She turns her back on him for a moment to call an ambulance with her phone. And then…

Numbers nodded in understanding.

 _‘What does it mean?’_ Wrench asked.

_‘What does what mean?’_

_‘All of this. Everything that’s happened in the last few months. It has to mean something.’_

_‘It means that one of our coworkers was a fucking psycho’_ Numbers said simply. _‘And for some reason, the universe has assigned to us the task of cleaning up the mess.’_

_‘But why us? Why it had to be us specifically?’_

Numbers shrugged. _‘It could have been anyone. The bosses could have sent anyone else to kill Zapper when he got greedy. Hell, they could have sent the Australian. Although I doubt Jergen would have discovered anything on his own, with his shitty observation skills.’_

_‘Anyone else would have just stuffed the girl in a bag and buried her in the woods.’_

Numbers gave him a long look.

_‘Yes, that’s true.’_

Wrench took off his gloves and looked down at his hands. They were big and weathered, full of tiny scars. The hands of a killer. If a palm reader took a look at them, at the tales the lines on them narrated, she would probably scream in terror and kick him out.

_‘We need to stop.’_

_‘Stop what?’_ Numbers asked.

Wrench just shook his head. _‘We need to stop.’_

_‘Or what?’_

_‘Or the next time we’ll be the ones getting a surprise visit from an elimination operative.’_

Numbers glared at him. _‘We won’t. We’re smarter than that.’_

 _‘Remember what Viper said?’_ Wrench asked. Numbers’ eyes widened. That was a name they had agreed to never mention again. _‘About becoming like them if you stayed for too long?’_

_‘We’re already like them! We’ve always been! We’re no different to them!’_

_‘You know that’s not what I mean.’_

_‘I’m not going to start kidnapping women off the streets if that’s what you’re worried about.’_

Wrench punched the steering wheel. Numbers didn’t even flinch.

 _‘We need to get out of here. It’s going to catch up with us one day,’_ Wrench said.

 _‘I’m open to suggestions,’_ Numbers said, raising his eyebrows sarcastically.

Wrench looked out the windshield to the dark house. Somebody should take a flamethrower to it and burn the whole place to the ground. Hey, maybe Dunbar would be open to the idea.

Numbers put a hand on his shoulder.

 _‘Just take us home’_ he said, and he looked so tired and miserable that Wrench couldn’t stay mad at him any longer. _‘I can’t keep thinking about this right now. We’ll talk tomorrow.’_

Wrench really hoped they had those sleeping pills in the apartment.

 

 

The man counted the coins in his hand. He hoped they would be enough. He had bought stuff he didn’t really need at the gas station just so he could have enough spare change to make this call. The door of the phone booth had been vandalized a long time ago, one of the glass panels was missing and it didn’t close properly, letting the cold draft run through it. The man huddled himself up in his blue coat and crammed the receiver in between ear and shoulder as he put the coins in the slot one by one.

“Hey, it’s me,” he spoke. “I just wanted to check in how you lot were doing. I’m in Aberdeen. No, I’m calling from a booth. I lost my phone. Yes, I know it’s the third one in two months. You know me, I’m clumsy. Yeah, I took a long weekend off. Everyone keeps telling me I’m a workaholic, so I’m just following their advice. Is the dinner on Friday still up? Okay, I’ll be there. Tell Joel and the kids I said hi. Love you. Bye.”

Just as he was hanging up, he was startled by a loud knocking on the side of the booth. An angry looking fat man in a grey parka was giving him a dirty look on the other side of the glass.

The man in the blue coat slid the door open with some difficulty and stepped outside. “Um, can I help you?”

The fat man pointed to a dark green Honda that was parked a few feet away. “Is that your car?”

“Yes, it is. I just stopped for a minute to make a call. I was just leaving.”

“Well, you should know that it’s not permitted to park in this street” the fat man huffed with an air of self-importance. “You should move your car before _somebody_ calls the police.”

The man in the blue coat smiled. “Thank you, kind sir, and sorry for the inconvenience. I didn’t realize. I’ll be leaving now.”

“Yeah, you better,” the fat man scoffed, and he walked away.

As soon as the fat man was out of earshot, the smile slipped off the other man’s face and was replaced by an annoyed scowl. He flipped his middle finger to the retreating grey parka in the distance and grumbled. “Archsgeige.”

The man in the blue coat got on his car and drove away. A road sign with the words _YOU ARE NOW LEAVING FARGO_ bid him farewell.

 


	7. Chirality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No amount of roses will make her forgive you.

Twenty years later, and the giant maple tree was still standing, tall and proud. And it would stand for many years to come, outliving generations. It extended its bare branches into the white sky like a fuzzy grayish-brown aura, with the topmost branches tipped in sparkling white, a symmetrical system of nerves and veins shaping an invisible organ that sprouted from the earth. The silver maple stood alone in the clearing, away from the smaller trees and the trail that led there. It looked like an old man in meditation, minding his own business and timidly waving hello to anyone who passed by. You couldn’t access that place on a vehicle, so Wrench and Numbers had to hike half a mile in the woods and then waddle through the several inches of snow across the clearing to get there. During the spring and summer, that place was a notorious biking trail that attracted scores of tourists and nature lovers. Cyclists and birdwatchers would traverse the dirt paths through the forest, feeling in awe at the beauty and quiet of the land. In winter, however, the biking trails were basically unusable and impossible to navigate, leaving the park a hibernating patch of solitude, waiting for the rebirth of the earth after the snow thawed.

Numbers put down the package in his arms over the twisted, upturned roots of the tree. _‘This place hasn’t changed at all since the last time.’_

Wrench dropped a large duffel bag he was carrying and dug his shovel in the dirt, letting the top of the handle rest against his shoulder. _‘When was the last time we came here?’_

Numbers shrugged. ‘ _Four or five years ago, I think. After the H-U-R-O-N job.’_ They both shuddered at the memory.

That place, that tree, would always be special to them. Long before it became a natural park and the hikers started flocking to it, Wes and Grady used to go there in the weekends to get drunk and commiserate over their teenage problems. It was their secret place. Wrench remembered how unusually hot it was that day at the beginning of May, so many years ago. They had both been feeling a bit drowsy with the cheap beer and the warm breeze. Grady was rambling, alternating between signing and speaking. He was complaining about the unfair grade he’d gotten in English, calling his teacher a stuck-up bitch or something, but Wes was only half paying attention. Grady had the tendency to jump from topic to topic way too fast for Wes to keep up. Then his shorter friend had asked:

 _‘Don’t you think Ms. Parry is hot?’_ Ms. Parry was the music teacher. She was significantly younger than the rest of the faculty, and she was always smiling. Grady was always suspiciously well-behaved in her classes. He’d even invented a name sign for her, a curled hand gesture that alluded to her long eyelashes.

Wes had found himself getting bothered by this seemingly harmless question. He’d frowned and waved a hand over his forehead, the first three fingers stretched while the thumb and index finger were pinched together.

 _‘What?’_ Grady had asked, unfamiliar with that sign.

 _‘I said,’_ Wes had repeated, _‘how can you be so O-B-L-I-V-I-O-U-S?’_

And then he had grabbed Grady by the lapels of his polo shirt and kissed him.

When they separated, Grady had looked at him with shock, like the kiss had taken him completely by surprise and he didn’t know how to react. But then, a nervous smile had crept up on his face, and Wes had felt both skittish and euphoric all over.

Numbers inched closer to the trunk of the tree, examining the old marks in the wood. In their youth, usual romantic gestures like carving their own names in a tree had never sat right with them. It didn’t feel right, being so open about their feelings and stating it outright for the world to see. And that was before their jobs forced them into a life of secretiveness, mind you. But they still had wanted to leave an imprint of themselves for posterity, a symbol of what they meant to each other. It just had to be something small and innocuous, like a secret code. So, Wes had carved two birds flying in circle in the bark of the tree, one of them moving upwards, the other going downwards. The yin and the yang.

Numbers looked down at the ground. _‘Do you think it’s still here?’_

 _‘Why shouldn’t it be?’_ Wrench replied, and he started digging.

It had started out as a joke between the two of them. Back in the days of fast technological advances and social paranoia, another school in the city had decided to do the whole ‘time capsule’ thing. Each student would put something that held sentimental value for them in a big chest, and then the whole school would bury the chest during a big ceremony. It was to be dug out decades later by the chosen few. An open letter to the future, a treasure box of memories for the next generation. Wes and Grady had not participated. Their own school was too much of the no-nonsense, no-fun-allowed type to organize that kind of thing. But they had mocked it endlessly, reiterating how cheesy and stupid they thought it was. After the dust had settled, however, Wes had said, offhandedly:

 _‘It would be cool to have a secret treasure box for ourselves, though.’_ He had tried to look like he didn’t really care either way. Tough guy. _‘We could open it when we’re grownups, see how much we’ve changed. You know. Just an idea.’_

They didn’t have much back then. Most of their belongings were borrowed or hand-me-downs. And that was how, inside a shoe box, Grady had put his first guitar pick and Wes had put his last baby tooth. A year later, they had upgraded to a wooden box after realizing that cardboard boxes didn’t hold up for long if you buried them under wet soil. After they had started earning their own money, they had continued to keep different things in the box. Numbers’ old cassette tapes that he didn’t listen to anymore, Van Morrison and Soundgarden and Lone Justice. A Sioux dagger made out of bone. Postcards from famous landmarks. A squashed, mushroom-shaped piece of metal that had once been a bullet and that a questionable doctor paid by Fargo had pulled out of Wrench’s abdomen.

After a few minutes of digging in the dirt, a heavy metal box sealed shut with a padlock was uncovered. Numbers kneeled down, produced a key from his pocket, and cracked it open.

The sentimental mementos were still there, sure. But at one point in their lives, they had decided to keep a few things more of the practical variety in there as well. Just in case. Things like fake IDs, spare ammo, and some money. They had kept adding supplies to the pile little by little. They knew that if they just dropped half their lifetime savings at once somebody would notice and start asking questions. They had never felt like they would be needing those things imminently, anyway. Not until today.

Wrench unzipped the duffel bag and extracted the precious cargo in it. The sawed-off Mossberg 500 was by far the most imposing thing they had ever put in their time capsule. He had to line the shotgun diagonally to make it fit inside the box. He put a couple more things too, a few packs of 12 gauge shells and a med kit.

Numbers unwrapped the package he had brought with him. First he placed Carlyle’s ledger in the corner of the box. Second, a Sig Sauer 1911 with the serial number erased. He then added a couple of stacks of money to the already existing pile. And lastly, a rolled up bundle of green nylon. Numbers grazed his fingers over it, tracing its contents in his mind, but he didn’t unfasten it. He put it down inside the box gently, like putting a baby to sleep.

 _‘Where did you get that gun?’_ Wrench asked, pointing at the Sig Sauer. It was a very nice looking gun without being too flashy, and it didn’t look cheap.

Numbers gave him a lopsided smile. _‘I won it from Jergen at a game of darts. You should have seen his face.’_ When it came to firearms, they weren’t very picky. As long as they worked properly and they could operate them comfortably, that was good enough for them. Ever since the incident with that Jasper guy, Numbers had bought him an actual holster for his revolver because ‘you’re not a fucking gangbanger’. Numbers also seemed to have taken up a slight interest in gun accessories lately, with an emphasis on practicality.

Numbers took one last look at the contents of the box. He closed the heavy lid slowly and secured the padlock in place. His eyes had a faraway look. _‘We’re actually doing this.’_

Wrench didn’t like the sense of finality in that sentence. _‘It’s just a preventive measure. It never hurts to be prepared.’_

_‘Right.’_

Numbers rose to his feet and grabbed the shovel. Without looking at his partner, he quickly covered the box again with dirt and snow.

 _‘Should we update that?’_ Wrench signed, pointing to the crude and weathered depiction of the birds carved on the tree.

 _‘Well look at you, getting sentimental’_ Numbers said, smirking. _‘Do you want to hang some decorations from the branches too? Maybe build a S-H-R-I-N-E to represent our love?’_

Wrench gave him the middle finger. Numbers opened his mouth and tilted his head back in laughter. He stopped laughing when Wrench pushed him against the tree and kissed the life out of him.

“Oh. Wow,” was what Numbers said when they broke apart to breathe. It was so much easier to read lips that close. He made a move as if to sign something, but Wrench pinned his hands against the tree. He felt the light tremor against his chest when Numbers giggled, that same timid, expectant smile from that day so many years before.

 _You know you’re the only one I let do these things to me_ , Wrench read in those lips. He closed the distance between them again.

He reached behind his jacket and unsheathed his knife. Numbers watched his movements, focused but not scared in the least. Wrench raised the knife above their heads and, in a sweep of his hand, carved a circle around the two birds. Numbers tilted his head back, nodding his head in appreciation.

 _‘What does it mean?’_ Numbers asked.

_‘It means that now it’s us against the world.’_

Numbers laughed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe him. He pulled him closer. You never got too old for long makeout sessions, after all.

 _‘This is great,’_ Numbers said after a while, _‘but I’m afraid that if we stay much longer I might lose a toe to frostbite.’_

On the walk back to the car, Numbers kept trying to check his phone for any missed calls, but it was no use when they were out there in the middle of nowhere. When they reached the main road and they had reception again, Numbers looked again and whatever he saw on the screen made him stop in his tracks and let out an ‘Oh, shit’.

 _‘What’s wrong?’_ Wrench asked, unlocking the car.

 _‘Mass text message to all free operatives. We’re supposed to be meeting with Carlyle at HQ in half an hour!_ ’

Well, Wrench never cared much for speeding tickets anyway.

 

“Man, you should have seen his face. He looked like he had no idea what was going on!” The small group of men erupted in laughter. “Like seriously, everyone is screaming like they’re seconds away from going full Rambo on each other, and he’s just standing there like he got in the building by accident! To be honest that’s how he looks most of the time. If the guy didn’t have a shadow following him everywhere, I don’t even know how he’d survive…”

The choir of laughter died off abruptly when Wrench and Numbers walked into the room.

“What’s so funny?” Numbers asked with a smile that spelled out murder.

“Oh, nothing.” One of the guys mumbled without making eye contact with him. What was his name again? Seeley? Shelly? “Just gossiping a little while we waited.”

“Oh, I love gossip!” Numbers cheered. “Like, this just in: did you guys know that Rafferty right here just got diagnosed with gonorrhea again? What is it, the third time in five years? What a stud.”

“Jesus, Numbers, it’s just small talk,” Rafferty said, shaking his head. He was sitting on the edge of the conference table, and it looked like he had been the center of attention of the group when they’d arrived. “No need to start tearing your garments over it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, you always tend to take things a little too personal. We were just talking, man, no harm intended.”

“Why don’t you come over here and I show you what ‘a little too personal’ really means, you dickhead?”

Rafferty laughed, like he found his reaction very funny. Everything was always very funny to Rafferty. “I’d love to, but God knows where your boyfriend has put his hands. I don’t want his sloppy seconds, thanks.”

“Neck yourself.”

Rafferty laughed again. The dimples that formed on his plump cheeks just didn’t look right on a man past the age of thirty. It was like somebody had transplanted the face of a boy on an adult body without much finesse. He looked around his circle of acolytes, making a ‘can you believe this guy?’ face. “Seriously? That’s your comeback?” Numbers clenched up his fists, and he took a step forward. Rafferty held up his hands in mock fear. “Ooh, now he’s coming, I’m sooo scared.”

The door opened with a screech, and in walked Carlyle, looking very unimpressed. Everyone in the meeting room froze, like schoolboys that had been caught brawling during study hour.

“Gentlemen” Carlyle greeted the group coldly. He put his briefcase down on the table and straightened his tie. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes without this place turning into the Attica riots, I see.” His eyes surveyed the room. There were only six enforcers present at the meeting, including Wrench and Numbers who’d just arrived, which was odd. “Where the hell is everyone else?” Carlyle asked.

Nobody replied to his question. They all looked at each other, waiting for someone else to volunteer an answer.

“Please, don’t speak all of you at once” Carlyle deadpanned.

Numbers exchanged a glance with his partner and cleared his throat. “We came here as soon as we got the message.”

“Yeah, same” another one of the enforcers, a languid, dark-skinned guy called Bell, agreed.

Carlyle sighed. He opened up his briefcase and started rummaging through the papers in it. The door of the conference room swung open, and a very disheveled Jergen came in, staggering a little in his step and smelling like booze and cheap perfume. Now they were seven, plus the boss. Still too few.

“Sorry, sorry, I overslept” the Australian said with a little hiccup.

“Mr. Jergen, your sense of professionalism is showing, as always” Carlyle said without sparing him a glance. Jergen muttered something and dropped himself off on the nearest chair available.

The bald administrative produced a white envelope from the briefcase. “Does anybody know where Roland is?”

All present in the room shook their heads.

“Wonderful. Just wonderful,” Carlyle grumbled. “Well, this job cannot wait any longer, so I suppose one of you will have to step in his place.” He took a look around the room, humming with clear lack of satisfaction at the selection of personnel he had to choose from. Eventually, his eyes settled on Wrench and Numbers in the corner. “You two,” he said, pointing a bony finger at the duo. “You’re going to take care of this. If you have something else going on, drop it immediately. This job takes priority.” He tossed the envelope on the side of the table, expecting Numbers to pick it up. He then addressed the whole group in general. “Since trying to give a briefing with less than fifty percent of attendance is completely pointless, this meeting is suspended until further notice. The rest of you, go make yourselves useful or something.”

The group began to disperse with a few grumbles of acquiescence. Carlyle gathered his files and closed up his briefcase.

Numbers examined the envelope. It only had the word ‘OLAF’ written in the back with blue pen. “Wait, what are we supposed to do?” Numbers asked.

Carlyle was already buttoning up his longcoat. “Everything you need to know is inside that envelope. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have some strong words with whoever’s in charge of Comms.” And with that being said, their boss hastily walked out the door. Numbers stood there, stupefied. At least he felt happy to not be the target of Carlyle’s ire for once.

“Do you think he ever sleeps?” Jergen asked after Carlyle had left. Everyone ignored him.

 

Wrench and Numbers went down the little gravel trail that crooked around the park, keeping their eyes open. A female jogger wearing earphones passed them by, her long footsteps crunching on the ground beneath her as she skipped away. Numbers surveyed the wide expanse of snow covered grass, trying to find the person they were looking for. A man was walking his dog a bit far away, his back to them. Underneath a couple of trees, another man was sitting alone at a picnic table. Numbers looked from one guy to the other, and started walking towards the picnic table.

The man at the table just watched the duo come closer while sipping from a paper cup. He looked like a college professor, with a mop of grayish hair curled back and reading eyeglasses, and his tweed coat was pulled tight around his slightly protruding belly.

“Excuse me, do you know where can I find a flower shop?” Numbers asked as he went over.

That code phrase had sounded strange when he’d first read it in the instructions that Carlyle had put in the envelope. Numbers had thought it was just another meaningless question designed to weed out random bystanders, regardless of the context. Until they had been driving around town on the way there, and looking out the window, he’d noticed that many of the shops had decorations of glittery hearts and little paper cupids. Then he’d remembered what day of the month it was. February 13th. Of course.

The man regarded him with a curious look. “Don’t bother, son,” he said, “no amount of roses will make her forgive you.”

Numbers smiled. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, sitting down at the table. Wrench remained standing at his side with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the older man’s face.

“About time you showed up” Kirby said. “I’ve been freezing my butt in this bench for an hour.”

“Sorry. The traffic was terrible.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Kirby said, nursing the paper cup on his hands. He shot a quick glance at Wrench. “Carlyle said he’d be sending his most discreet employee. As in, singular.”

“Yeah, about that… There was a little problem of coordination at HQ. Last minute rearrangement. Don’t worry, we’re the best.”

“You better be. How’s Tripoli doing, by the way? Haven’t talked to that old fart in ages.”

“He’s… dandy.” Numbers said. “Strong as a bull.”

Kirby cackled. “Ha! And as fat as one, I bet!” He drank from his cup in between giggles. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the cup down. “Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Kirby snapped his fingers, and the man with the dog turned around and started walking towards them. As he came closer, it became even more obvious that he was no random bystander. A tattoo of a cobweb on the side of his neck was peeking under the collar of his jacket. His head was covered with a wool beanie and he was wearing a pair of those ski sunglasses which he probably thought looked very intimidating, but they just made him look like a dumbass. The dog, some kind of half-breed Doberman but with drop ears, trotted happily at his feet, tongue lolling.

“Holt, these gentlemen here were sent by Fargo. Give them what they need,” Kirby said. With a grunt, Holt pulled a big manila envelope from the inside of his jacket and left it on the table in front of Numbers. The words STAY DOWN were inked across his eight knuckles.

“How much did Carlyle tell you about this job?” Kirby asked as Numbers took out the contents of the folder.

“Not much. Our instructions just told us to come here and what to say.”

“Well then, let me give you a quick rundown. This guy over here,” Kirby pointed at a slightly blurry picture of a middle aged man in a suit, “is Wally Caplan, local councilman. He’s your typical run of the mill corrupt legislator. We have the usual ‘quid pro quo’ working relationship with him. We slip him some money under the table from time to time, and he conveniently signs some documents or votes against a new regulation that would screw over our business.” Numbers nodded to indicate that he was following along. “Except, lately he’s gotten a bit too full of himself, started making more demands. Says he deserves more pay for all these years of service.”

“Ah, I hate it when that happens,” Numbers said.

“He was supposed to sign some building permissions in our interest, but he’s been stalling the whole thing for months.” Kirby explained. “He’s asking a ridiculous bribe this time, the bastard. Granted, this time if he gets caught he could lose his career, his reputation… he could face prison time. But since he’s been doing it for years without complaining once, I don’t know why he’s decided to start getting so finicky all of a sudden. Personally, I think he’s just greedy.”

“What kind of permissions?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Kirby said, in a tone that meant _you’re just a lowly henchman and you don’t need to concern yourself with the details_. “What matters is that both my people and your people have common interests in this guy signing those documents. He’s just going to need a bit of persuasion.”

“Oh, I see.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Numbers noticed that Wrench had gotten distracted petting the dog. Holt simply stood there like a statue, holding the leash while he watched the park behind his ridiculous sunglasses. “You want us to beat him up a bit, make him come to his senses. We can do that.”

Kirby shook his head slowly. “No, that alone won’t work.”

“No offense, but I think you underestimate us.”

“That’s not the point. Look, I know that man well. He’s a crook, but he’s also one tough son a bitch. ‘Nam veteran, you know? He was a POW for almost two years and didn’t crack once, and he came back from there without being too messed up in the head, which says a lot about the guy’s resilience. No, we’ll have to give this thing a different approach.” Kirby rummaged through the papers, but he seemed to not find what he was looking for. “Holt, do you have it?”

“Look deeper, it should be in there” Holt replied.

 _‘Tell that idiot that he needs to buy a coat for his dog’_ Wrench signed when Numbers looked at him.

“My friend says your dog is freezing” Numbers said.

Holt tilted his head towards him, his sunglasses reflecting the light in an orange blaze. The ink cobweb moved as the tendons on his neck tensed. “He’s not mine” he said with a gruff voice. “I have to return him to the shelter by five o’clock.”

Kirby slammed a picture on the table in front of him. Numbers gazed down at it. It was a photo of a girl coming out of a coffee shop that had obviously been taken with a SLR camera from a distance. The girl in it was swinging a tote bag over her shoulder as she exited the shop, completely oblivious.

“Her name’s Joanna,” Kirby said. “She goes to St. Olaf.”

Numbers just blinked at him. “Okay?”

Kirby stared at him for a moment. “You understand what I want you to do, don’t you?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

Wrench had stopped petting the dog and was watching Kirby with a very serious look on his face.

Kirby sighed with exasperation. “I’m going to have to spell it out, aren’t I?” He looked over his shoulder, as if to make sure that there was nobody around within a hearing distance. “Let’s put it this way: Mr. Caplan isn’t going to be easily convinced to sign those permissions, not even if you tie him to a chair and get creative with his soft tissues. I doubt you two can come up with anything that the Vietcong didn’t already do to him. Maybe you’ll be able to make him crack, maybe not. But at the end of the day, that’s essentially a gamble. And I don’t gamble.”

Kirby tapped his fingers on the photo.

“But, like most humans, he has a weak spot that we can exploit” the man said, lowering his voice. “Now, if anything were to happen to daddy’s little princess... Now that’s a different story.”

Numbers looked down at the photo. Then he looked at Kirby. The man was watching him with half-squinted eyes, waiting for his reaction. He was smirking a little, like he was playing out a social experiment on Numbers and his subject evoked both interest and mild amusement in him.

Numbers felt a momentary urge to jump across the table and beat that man to a pulp.

“Wait a goddamn second,” Numbers said. “I don’t know how long you’ve been doing business with Fargo, but we’re not the fucking FARC. We don’t kidnap little girls.”

“Little?” Kirby asked indignantly, like he couldn’t understand Numbers’ objections. “She’s nineteen years old!”

“Almost twenty, I think,” Holt added.

“But, in all seriousness,” Kirby said, leaning forward, “you’re not exactly in a position to negotiate. Let me remind you that you’re here to do a job and that’s it, not to offer your input. If I wanted to hear a second opinion on how to solve my problems, I’d call a consultant, not a…” he waved his hand across the table, looking between the odd pair of hitmen. “Whatever you two are.”

Numbers gripped the edge of the table, clenching his teeth behind his closed mouth. He didn’t say anything.

“Very well,” Kirby said. “If you’re over your annoying little bout of conscience, listen. We don’t have much time, so you’re going to do it tonight. Look, all we want is to shake Mr. Caplan a little. Take the girl for a ride for a few hours, scare the man enough to make him sign those damn papers. After that is done, you can release your catch back into the river, no harm done, and everyone’s happy. Hell, I bet this is going to be your easiest job ever.”

Numbers cast a sidelong glance at his partner. Wrench’s hands started moving quickly like he had been waiting for Numbers to look at him, but his face remained emotionless.

_‘I don’t believe him.’_

“What?” Kirby asked, annoyed.

“He says that we need time to prepare a plan.” Numbers said.

Kirby shook his head. “Tonight. The plan is pretty simple. Grab the girl and take her to this place.” Kirby passed him another envelope across the table. Numbers started to open it, but then Kirby put a hand on his wrist. “I can trust you to get this job done, right?”

Numbers flung his hand back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Kirby put his hands up, smirking. “Wow, you sure are cranky. I’ll be sure to mention it to Carlyle the next time I take him for a drink.” With a chuckle, the man got to his feet and gathered all the papers on the table except for the girl’s picture and the unopened envelope. “You’ll find some more useful information in there. See you tonight.” He turned to his enforcer. “Holt, let’s beat it.”

Kirby and Holt walked away from the meeting without looking back, the dog trailing behind them. Numbers watched them go, frozen to his seat. His jaw was starting to hurt from clenching his teeth so hard.

 _‘Did I understand that right?’_ Wrench asked as soon as the other two men were at a safe distance. He sat down across his partner. _‘They want us to kidnap some rich guy’s daughter to blackmail him into signing some shit?’_

_‘You’re getting really good at lip reading. Have you been practicing?’_

Wrench banged both of his fists on the table. Numbers took a deep breath.

 _‘They cannot be serious’_ Wrench said.

Numbers picked up the envelope and shoved it in his pocket. Then he took the photo gingerly and looked at it closely. It didn’t have the topmost quality of photography, but it was clear enough to tell the girl’s features. She had an oval face with almond eyes, long brown hair, and caterpillar eyebrows. She looked nothing like her father.

He turned the photo upside down. _‘I think they made themselves very clear.’_

As they walked back to their car, Wrench raised the question that Numbers had been asking himself from the moment Kirby had walked away. _‘Why the fuck can’t the guy just send his own enforcers to do this?’_

Numbers shrugged. _‘Probably doesn’t want to get his own people involved in case things go south. I guess Fargo must owe him a big favor if he can get them to do his dirty work for him.’_

The jogger from before passed them by, running in the opposite direction. She must have been running laps around the park. She locked eyes with Numbers for a second as she ran past them. Her hand went up to her neck gaiter, pulling it closer around her throat. She picked up her pace and began to run faster.

 

They went back to their apartment to grab some things they needed and get some rest before going off. Numbers knew that it was going to be a long night. Wrench was going through the closets and cabinets, grabbing several things. Numbers didn’t know what the hell Wrench was putting in their travel bag, but he didn’t ask.

It was time. They couldn’t keep putting this off any longer. Wrench was kneeling on the floor by the door, searching through the bag with his back to Numbers. He looked at his partner and cleared his throat, testing the sound in the room.

“So, either I’m having a mental breakdown, or turns out that ghosts actually exist,” Numbers said out loud. Wrench kept doing what he was doing without turning around. “What do you think of that, huh?”

That was something that Numbers had only done a couple of times in their partnership, test his words like that to hear how they sounded outside his own head. It felt a bit like cheating. It felt like he was doing something rude and dishonest. But some things were hard to put to words, one way or another. There were things he needed to get out of his chest but he thought it was selfish of him to burden Wrench with them. This little white lie solved the problem without hurting anyone’s feelings.

Wrench stopped fiddling with the bag. Maybe he had caught some vibrations in the air, like a whisper in the wind. Maybe his subconscious had picked up on the fact that Numbers had been standing right behind him for some time now and he found it odd.

Wrench turned around slowly, frowning at him. _‘What?’_

_‘I said we have to go.’_

 

If anything, it couldn’t be said that Mr. Kirby was not thorough. He, or whoever the man paid to do intel for him, had done most of the hard work for them. Inside the envelope he had included the girl’s complete schedule of classes and other activities, her address, and a detailed map of her usual routes. She volunteered at the hospital three times a week and then walked six blocks back to the rental apartment she shared with a friend. Her dad paid for it in full, which to Joanna’s roommate must have felt like hitting the friendship jackpot.

Wrench parked their car in a dark alley. He checked his watch. Quarter past ten. He could tell that his partner was nervous.

 _‘How are we going to do this?’_ Wrench asked.

_‘When she walks in front of the alley, we grab her and put her in the trunk.’_

_‘What if she screams?’_

_‘She won’t, because you’re going to gag her before she can do it.’_

_‘What if she resists?’_

_‘Come on. In the picture she looked like she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet.’_

Wrench’s nostrils flared. _‘I don’t want to do this.’_

 _‘And you think I do?’_ Numbers opened the glove compartment and gave Wrench a black balaclava. _‘Put this on. It’s pretty dark already, but I don’t want to take any risks.’_

_‘What about you?’_

_‘It’s the only mask I found in the closet. I haven’t had time to buy another one, okay?’_

Wrench shook his head. _‘I’m not hitting that girl.’_

Numbers scowled. _‘I didn’t ask you to.’_

Wrench turned around and reached in the gap behind his seat. He took a plastic bottle from the floor and put it in his partner’s hand. Numbers looked at the bottle with confusion and read the label. Chloroform.

 _‘Where did you even get this?’_ He asked. Wrench shrugged. Numbers rubbed his temples. _‘Do you even know if this thing is going to work?’_

Wrench shrugged again. _‘It’s better than nothing.’_

They got out of the car and went over to the mouth of the alley. They crouched down behind a dumpster, hiding in the shadows. Wrench pulled the woolen balaclava over his head. He felt ridiculous.

 _‘Now you look like a cowboy terrorist’_ Numbers signed. Wrench flipped him off. Numbers wrapped his scarf over the lower half of his face and put on his sunglasses. Not perfect, but it should be enough to conceal his face.

 _‘Can you see with those on?’_ Wrench asked, pointing at the sunglasses. You could add that to the list of people who wore shades at night: celebrities, people with photosensitivity, general douchebags, and unprepared kidnappers.

 _‘Enough.’_ Numbers peered his head over the corner and signaled for him to come closer. _‘There she comes.’_

A girl came walking down the sidewalk with her hands in her pockets. It was hard to see her face from that distance, but it was clearly her. Her posture was terrible, she was walking with an arch on her back, looking at the ground rather to what was in front of her. Her shoulders seemed to be stooped over by the weight of the backpack she was carrying, and she was walking fast.

 _‘Ready’_ Numbers said, or asked. Wrench couldn’t tell if it was a question or an affirmation without the facial clues. He just nodded and put himself in position.

And then, when she was fifty feet or so away from the entrance of the alley, she stopped suddenly and looked in their direction. They recoiled back into the shadows. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Had she seen them? Wrench had no idea what they were going to do if she decided to turn around, or if she just decided to cross the street. They hadn’t had time to devise a plan on how to chase a college student across the whole town without being detected.

Wrench risked a quick peek. Joanna was still standing on the sidewalk, looking but not seeing, like something inside her could sense the upcoming danger. Wrench started to quickly consider all of their options in that moment. She wasn’t that far away, even if she saw them coming face on, maybe they could just make a run for it and catch her before she could escape. Even if there were witnesses, they couldn’t see their faces. Maybe if they got to the car fast enough they’d manage to drive away before anyone had time to write down their plate number… Maybe. Or maybe all of that was as stupid as he thought it was and it was a terrible idea to accept that job in the first place.

Or maybe they could just give up and walk away. That was also an option. Wrench did the math in his head. If they drove fast enough, they could be back in Fargo right before Kirby started wondering what was taking them so long. They could disconnect their phones, make a quick run to their apartment and pack some things. Then they could go back to their safebox in the woods and get the money and the guns. They could just leave that very same night and very far away from there before the bosses knew what was going on–

Joanna started walking again in their direction.

Numbers nodded at him. Wrench produced a piece of cloth from his pocket and poured the contents of the bottle on it until it was completely soaked. Numbers got in position, like a tiger crouched down in the grass for a hunt.

What happened next was too fast to pick apart any details. They moved like living shadows, precise and unrelenting. She struggled for a few seconds against the arms holding her, her feet dangling and kicking above the ground, and she tried to shy her face away from the cloth pressed against her mouth and nose, but it was a futile effort. The dark alleyway swallowed her up like a deep sea creature.

Numbers couldn’t tie her hands behind her back properly with her puffer jacket on, so he asked Wrench to help him get her off her coat before rolling the duct tape around her wrists and ankles. With a strip of tape over her mouth and a blindfold over her eyes, Wrench put her down inside the trunk as gently and quickly as possible. Her backpack had fallen to the floor during the struggle. Numbers picked it up and tossed it in the backseat. Wrench put her puffer coat over her legs, like a blanket, before slamming the trunk closed. He could breathe much better after taking off the balaclava. They knocked over a garbage bin and scrapped the car against a corner as they drove away.

 

Wrench didn’t let it show, but he was fucking terrified the whole drive. He pulled the car over halfway to the meeting point. They were in the middle of the woods, the headlights fading into endless black.

 _‘Why are we stopping here?’_ Numbers asked.

_‘I want to make sure she doesn’t suffocate on the way.’_

As he had expected, Joanna was already awake after just a few minutes. The effects of chloroform really didn’t last for long without constant exposure. She squirmed in her bonds when she heard the trunk open, her cries that he couldn’t hear anyway muffled by duct tape. Mostly, he just wanted to make sure that she wasn’t drowning in her own vomit or something like that. He’d read that chloroform could be nausea-inducing.

 _‘Should we give her more?’_ Numbers asked.

_‘No, I don’t want to tear her liver to pieces.’_

Wrench decided that the dizziness he was feeling in that moment was due to him inhaling a bit of the chloroform. It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he hated himself so much in that moment that it made him sick.

He stopped two more times on the way to check on her. Numbers didn’t object once.

 

“Fucking finally! I thought you were going to get cold feet on me.” Kirby looked surprised to actually see their car pulling over in his remote driveway.

Numbers walked round the car without a word, and Wrench did the same. He really couldn’t stand to look at Kirby’s smug face in that moment, least he did something he’d later regret.

He opened the trunk with a flourish. “Happy now?”

Kirby looked down at the girl and hummed with appreciation. “Good job. Now get her inside.” He turned around and started walking towards the house. Numbers held the lid of the trunk open as Wrench bent down and picked the girl up. When she felt his hands on her, she recoiled, and started muffling against the tape.

“Shhh, calm down” Numbers said. Her head tilted towards the sound, and she whined behind the gag. “We won’t hurt you if you behave. Are you going to behave?” She took dragged breaths through her nose, and nodded her head with short shakes. “Good.” He reached out and adjusted her blindfold. “Now let’s get you inside, you’re going to freeze out here.”

Kirby unlocked the front door, and out of nowhere his lapdog appeared and went to stand by his side. Holt wasn’t wearing his ski shades anymore. His eyes were cold and droopy. The three henchmen followed Kirby inside the house like a silent entourage. Wrench went in last, carrying Joanna in his arms like a ragdoll. He had to maneuver a bit to fit through the door. Kirby was waiting for them in a room that was both a lounge and dining room. There were wooden cabinets, old fashioned decorations, and an open kitchenette in the corner. Kirby pulled a chair from the dining table and dragged it to the middle of the room. He saw Wrench enter carrying the girl bridal-style and he frowned.

“Geez, why is he being so delicate?” Kirby asked impatiently. “Get her in there already!”

Numbers closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “Stop shouting.” He hissed.

“Just tie her in there and come to the other room.”

Numbers didn’t say anything as he helped Wrench sit the girl down on the chair. She had gone completely still, like a rabbit trapped in a snare, and she was shivering from head to toe. Holt silently passed him a rope. They tied it around her arms and torso and across the back of the chair. She had stopped whimpering, but silent tears were streaming under the blindfold and running down her face.

“It’s okay,” Numbers said softly. He pulled at the rope to make sure that it was tight, but not too tight. “It’ll be over soon. You just have to sit there. Breathe.”

He probably shouldn’t speak unless strictly necessary. He didn’t want her to get familiar with his voice. With one last tug at the rope, he got up and crossed the room in big strides. Wrench moved to follow him, but Numbers shook his head. _‘Wait here’_ , he signed. He glanced at Holt, sitting at the table and peeling an apple with a pocket knife. _‘Watch the girl’_ he added. But what he really meant was _watch him_.

Numbers entered what looked like a fusion between a recreation room and an office. The bookshelves were made of aged plywood and there was a small TV set on a wheeled cart by the wall. Numbers took a look at the shelves and saw books about World History and theater plays for the most part. A foosball table was collecting dust in the corner. Kirby was standing by the desk under the only window. He had an open briefcase in front of him. He didn’t turn around when Numbers walked in.

“Whose house is this?” Numbers asked.

“It used to be the vacation home of one of our old… associates.” Kirby replied. “That is, until he suffered a terrible accident. He was a lonely man with no family, so the State seized all of his assets after his death and put the land for sale.”

“Of course.” Numbers dragged a fingertip across the surface of the foosball table, leaving a shiny strip in the dust. His finger came out covered in grime and he brushed it against his pants discreetly. “So what now?”

Kirby turned around. He had a burner phone in his hand. “First I’m going to call Tripoli and Carlyle to inform them that everything’s going according to plan. Then I’m going to call my actuary and tell him to get everything ready the second those permissions are signed. And _then_ I’m going to call Caplan. That’s when showtime’s going to get really started.”

“He must be asleep by now.”

“Oh, I hope so. I want to wake him up with a surprise. The less lucid he is, the less he’ll fight.” He punched some numbers into the phone, but stopped and looked at the hitman. “By the way, what did you do with her stuff?”

“What?”

“Girls are always carrying a handbag or something. Did you just leave it at the scene?”

“Her things are in the car. We didn’t think it was a good idea to leave anything behind. Better if they don’t know where we took her, might give us more time.”

“Good thinking.” Kirby agreed. “Bring her stuff here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Numbers went back to the living room. Wrench was sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, watching Holt vigilantly. The other man ignored him as he ate his piece of fruit. He had taken off his beanie. He had flat top haircut and a scar below his hairline.

 _‘Go get the girl’s stuff from the car’_ Numbers signed. Wrench nodded and left through the front door.

“There’s more in the fridge,” Holt said to Numbers, waving the half eaten apple. “Want some?”

Numbers didn’t answer. He sat down in the place that his partner had vacated. Holt made a sound between a huff and a chuckle and chewed loudly. Numbers glared at him.

Wrench came back with Joanna’s puffer jacket and backpack and dumped them on the carpet at his partner’s feet. Numbers reached down and scattered the contents of the bag on the floor. Well, no wonder the damn thing was so heavy, he thought as he pulled out L.G. Wade’s _Organic Chemistry_ , a textbook that was almost the size of his old VHS player. There was another book, much thinner, more like a manual. _MCAT Advanced Prep and Test Questions_. Many of the pages on both books were marked with neon colored stickers, entire paragraphs highlighted and pencil notes scrawled in the margins. Joanna had the calligraphy of someone who used to write very neatly but whose handwriting was in the process of deteriorating into a sloppy mess due to hours and hours of taking notes in class at inhuman speeds. So that was why every doctor’s writing was completely unreadable by the time they graduated med school, heh. The other contents of the bag were: a yellow canvas pencil case, a package of biscuits, a notebook, and a wallet. In total, she had thirty-six dollars plus a debit card on her person. Besides that, the usual: driver’s license, college photo ID, gift card from Nordstrom, a few coupons. The blood donor card at the bottom gave him pause. He stared at it for a moment, and put everything back in the wallet the way it was. Wrench sat down on the floor and leafed through the pages of the notebook. His expression was hard to read.

“What are you guys doing?” Kirby asked from the door when he saw them rummaging through Joanna’s things.

“Just checking” Numbers answered.

“Well then, knock yourself out,” Kirby grumbled. He still had the burner phone in his hand. He mouthed the word ‘showtime’ to them and retreated back into the office, closing the door behind him.

“It’s cold in here,” Holt said suddenly. “I’m going to turn the heater on.” The heater consisted of a cylindrical, claw-footed iron wood burner on the southern wall, with a wide pipe that came out of the top and went up to the ceiling. “I think there’s a stack of firewood in the back.”

Numbers quickly translated for his partner what the other man wanted, and leaped to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

 _‘Do you need help?’_ Wrench asked.

 _‘No, I got it.’_ Looking sideways to make sure that Holt wasn’t watching, he added: _‘I don’t want to leave her alone with those two.’_

Turned out, when Holt had said ‘in the back’, he really meant ‘in a shack at the end of the backyard, in which you’ll have to navigate through mountains of junk in the dark and then move a bunch of rusty bicycles in order to get to the actual wood’. The whole ordeal really made Numbers appreciate the fact that he’d decided to mod his Glock with a tactical light. A weapon and a flashlight in one. Best idea he’d had in a long time.

When he came back with an armload of dry logs, he found Holt kneeling by an already lit stove, stoking the flames with a poker. Joanna’s coat, or rather what remained of it, was scattered at his feet in a mess of nylon and duck down feathers. The parts that were not on the floor were in the process of being burned to a crisp. Obviously Holt couldn’t fit the whole thing in the burner at once, so he’d had to cut it into pieces first.

“Oh, thanks,” Holt said, looking over his shoulder. “Turns out there was a bit of wood left inside. But we’re going to need a lot more, so that’ll come in handy.”

Numbers let the logs drop and clatter down to the floorboards. “What _the hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Holt shrugged. “Orders.” He took what was left of a sleeve and tossed it in the stove. “You should pick that up.”

Wrench rushed to his side and his hands began to move frantically. _‘I tried to stop him but he said something about destroying evidence and then he said something that I didn’t understand and I didn’t want to piss him off.’_

 _‘It’s okay’_ Numbers reassured him. Joanna’s backpack was still on the floor next to the couch. Numbers grabbed it and sat down, putting it in his lap. He wrapped his arms around it, like a dragon guarding his treasure. “I think we can hold on to this for now,” he said before Holt could ask him about it.

Holt shrugged. “Whatever. You can discuss it with the boss if you want.” He continued stoking the fire.

Numbers checked the time on his watch. Jesus, was it two a.m. already? He felt like he should be more tired. Pulling all-nighters wasn’t uncommon at all in their job, but the older he got the more he noticed the long-lasting effects of fucking with his body’s natural sleep cycle.

 _‘I’m going to take a piss’_ Wrench said, stretching his legs. He didn’t ask where the bathroom was, but given the size of the house, it couldn’t be hard to find.

Numbers turned to Joanna. She looked like she might have fallen asleep. “Hey,” he whispered. She didn’t move. He reached out and poked her in the arm gently, and she jerked her head back, whimpering. “Sorry, sorry. Hey, you okay?” He realized how fucking stupid it was to ask her how she was doing, and wanted to kick himself. “Um, I mean, do you need to go to the bathroom or something?”

She seemed to think about it for a moment, and then shook her head slowly.

“You sure?”

She nodded.

Numbers sighed. “Okay, then.” He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Please, let this fucking night end already.

“Aren’t you going to take your gloves off?” Holt asked him.

Numbers looked down at his hands. Both he and Wrench were still wearing their leather gloves, which they hadn’t taken off the whole night. Numbers was actually itching to get rid of them, but something told him that he shouldn’t just yet.

“No, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

 _‘Where’s the bathroom?’_ Numbers asked when his partner came back.

_‘Second door on the right.’_

 

After flushing the toilet, Numbers took a long look at himself in the mirror. Physically, he didn’t look any different from yesterday, or a week ago, or a year ago. Then why did he feel like he’d aged a decade in just the last couple of months? He idly wondered how hard it would be to recognize him if he shaved his beard. Hard enough to throw the cops off his back if one day his photo was broadcasted on the news?

He splashed cold water on his face.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he said out loud, pointing a finger at his own reflection. “You’re a professional. Get your shit together.”

He opened the mirror cabinet and took a look inside. He had no reason to, it was just an ingrained habit in him to nose around whenever he was in an unfamiliar place. He had been called him a control freak more than once. He thought they were wrong, by the way. Numbers was well aware of the fact that he couldn’t actually control everything. But damn if it wasn’t for lack of trying.

He found a plastic comb, a rusty disposable razor, and a toothbrush that looked like it’d been there since the Gulf War. “Well hello, Tetanus infection” he said. He closed the cabinet. He washed his hands, dried himself with a towel, and put his gloves back on. Then he took a wet washcloth and wiped every single surface that he’d touched. He heard Kirby shouting in the living room just as he was finishing. Showtime, he thought sarcastically. He tossed the washcloth on the sink and rushed to the living room.

Kirby was standing next to the girl, talking on the phone. “…don’t believe me, huh? There’s someone here who wants to speak with you, Caplan.” The man put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and she flinched. He put the phone close to her face. “Say hi to daddy, Joanna.”

She let out a weak cry when the tape was harshly removed from her mouth. She inhaled a sharp intake of breath, and began to speak desperately. Her voice sounded different to how Numbers had imagined it. “Dad, dad, please help me, please, I don’t know–”

“That’s enough,” Kirby cut her off, gagging her again. “Are you listening now, you dirtbag?” He said to Mr. Caplan on the phone. “I’ll call you again in an hour. You better have everything ready by then.”

He hung up the phone and turned to look at the three henchmen. Holt was sitting at the table, looking bored. Wrench and Numbers were standing awkwardly with identical stunned faces. “What?” Kirby asked, frowning at them. “I’ll be in the other room if you need me.” He approached Holt and said to him: “Go take watch outside,” and then he vanished himself to the office.

The pair were left alone in the room with Joanna. She was rocking back and forth in the chair as much as the ropes would let her, making ragged sounds in the back of her throat as she fought for breath.

Wrench went to her side and took a closer look. His hands hovered over her frame awkwardly, afraid of touching her and unsure of what to do. _‘If we don’t do something, she’s going to faint,’_ he said, looking scared.

Numbers came closer. _‘Maybe we should let her faint.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘Maybe it’s better if she stays unconscious during this whole thing. Let this night be just a bad dream.’_

Wrench looked at him with incredulity. He raised his hands as if to say something, but then Joanna started convulsing violently.

_‘Shit, I think she’s going to vomit!’_

Wrench stripped off the tape on her mouth just two seconds before she threw up on the floor.

She coughed and gagged for a little longer, and eventually she started breathing normally, more or less. Wrench rubbed her back carefully, like he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. She didn’t jerk away from the touch.

Numbers rubbed his eyes and sighed. _‘We have to clean this before they see it’_ He didn’t know how Kirby would react if he saw that she had vomited on his carpet, and he didn’t want to find out.

Wrench searched in the cupboards until he found a rag and a bucket. While he mopped up the mess on the floor, Numbers went over to the kitchenette, filled a cup under the tap, and brought it over. He pressed the cup to her lips, slowly to not startle her. “Here, drink.” She pressed her lips tightly. Well, so much for his niceness, she still didn’t trust him. Although he expected as much, obviously. He sighed. “I promise I’m not trying to poison you.” Finally, she relented and opened her mouth. “There you go. Slowly.”

They didn’t duct tape her mouth again. She kept very quiet all on her own.

The two hitmen spent the next hour sitting uncomfortably on the couch, looking anywhere but at the girl and pretending to each other that their nerves weren’t completely on edge. Kirby didn’t come out from the office at all. Holt piped in at one point, darting through the kitchenette to get a banana from the fridge. He asked them how they were doing on his way out. It was a rhetorical question of course, he clearly didn’t give a crap, and Numbers didn’t answer him either.

Numbers picked up the MCAT guide to distract himself. He opened it at random and read the first question on the page. _What does nucleophilic attack by water on a phosphate monoester produce?_ He didn’t understand a single word. Next one. What the fuck was a peptidase? He tossed the quiz guide on the coffee table and lied down on his side. He drew his legs to his chest in a fetal position and his eyes fixated on the burning stove on the wall. He felt Wrench shift beside him on the couch.

Kirby stormed inside the room, pressing the phone to his ear. There was a dark intention in his eyes.

“What’s going on…?” Numbers felt his heartbeat skip when he saw the pocket knife in Kirby’s hand. He and Wrench leaped to his feet and moved to the center of the room.

“I don’t care!” Kirby was shouting to the receiver. “No more excuses, Caplan! You’re going to do what I say, and you’re going to do it now!”

Wrench and Numbers exchanged panicked looks. Kirby stood behind the chair the girl was sitting in and dangled the knife behind her head.

“You think I’m bluffing, huh?” Kirby said to the phone. “Think I won’t do it? I’ll show you who’s bluffing here.”

Before they had time to react, Kirby slit the knife in the skin behind her left ear. She screamed. So did Numbers.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” before Numbers could jump on Kirby, a pair of hands grabbed him from behind and shoved him back against the couch. Holt had fucking materialized out of thin air or something. Numbers slumped on the couch, too stunned to say anything.

Wrench looked ready to kill, but before he could make any move, Kirby casually lifted his blazer to the side and revealed the holster of his gun. Holt stood on the other side, unmoving but ready for anything. Wrench cast a quick look at Numbers, who just shook his head. The deaf hitman gave Kirby a look of absolute contempt, which the other man promptly ignored. Numbers could hear yelling coming from the other side of the line from where he was.

“Did you hear that, Caplan?” Kirby shouted to the phone as he wiped the knife with one of the napkins on the table. “That was just a warm up. Better get those papers ready real fast if you don’t want to hear the unedited version. I really hate repeating myself.” He cut the call after that, and surveyed the three men in the room.

“Is there any problem here?” He asked coolly.

Numbers swallowed until he found his voice again.

“No. No problem at all.”

Kirby smiled smugly. “Good. I’ll be in the other room if you need me.” He and Holt left the room again, both of them the epitome of indifference.

Joanna kept crying. Blood was trickling down the side of her head and drenching her sweater, staining the powder blue cotton in dark maroon. Wrench went out to the hallway without saying anything. Numbers took the cleanest rag he found in the cabinets and soaked it with water. He approached Joanna and tapped her shoulder gently. “I’m going to take a look at that.”

Numbers inspected the wound. There was a long thin cut coming down between ear and neck. The skin and the hair around it were matted with blood, but it didn’t look too deep. “It looks worse than it actually is,” Numbers said, rubbing the wet rag carefully against the cut to clean it up. Wrench came back with a pack of gauze and surgical tape. Numbers dressed the wound as best as he could until it looked like the bleeding was contained. “There you go. You’re alright.” He put his hands down slowly. The fingertips of his gloves were sticky with blood. “You’re alright.” She didn’t say anything. Somehow that was even worse.

When Numbers turned back, he found Kirby staring at him from the door to the office. The older man had an indecipherable look on his face. He had the phone stuck to his ear again. Without saying anything, Kirby motioned for Numbers to follow him inside.

Numbers entered the room just in time to hear Kirby saying “Happy Valentine’s Day,” before hanging up. The older man put the phone down on the desk and gave Numbers a lopsided grin.

“What?” Numbers asked harshly. His patience was wearing very, _very_ thin.

“I didn’t know you were so well versed in the subject of Stockholm syndrome.”

Numbers was rendered speechless for a second.

“Fuck off.”

Kirby chuckled. “It wasn’t a critic. I thought I was going to have to deal with a hysterical and uncooperative teenager for hours. You saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Did Caplan sign the papers?” Numbers asked to change the subject.

“He did.”

He felt like a load had been taken off his shoulders and sighed with relief. “Good. That’s good.”

“You know, you could have saved yourself the trouble, with the… blindfold and all that… shit. Caplan already knows it was me who did this.”

“He’s not going to call the cops. You said so, he has as much dirty laundry himself as you do.”

“We’re well past that point now. I spoke with Tripoli an hour ago. Your boss and I both agree that Caplan has screwed us over too many times now. We gave him plenty of opportunities to come around, but he just kept getting more greedy and arrogant. It’s not about not getting caught. It’s about showing him who’s boss.” Kirby took a step forward and invaded his personal space. “Hit him where it hurts.”

Numbers stared at the man in front of him. He felt like the floor was shifting under his feet, like the Earth was spinning on its axis in the wrong direction and throwing him off his center of gravity. Everything was upside down. Everything was wrong.

“Take her outside,” Kirby said coldly. “I don’t want to spend an hour scrubbing blood off the carpet.”

 

Numbers pulled a knife and cut down the duct tape that held her ankles together. Then he untied the rope and pulled her up on her feet. With one hand on her shoulder and another on the small of her back, he directed her out the room towards the back of the house. Wrench followed them. Numbers didn’t look at him. He couldn’t.

“Wh- where are you taking me?” Joanna asked, shuffling her feet blindly.

“You look pale. You need to get some fresh air.”

They went through a sliding door to the backyard. A trail of slate tiles led them around the house and to a small patio behind an L-shaped corner. An outdoor lamp light hanging from the wall illuminated that area. There was only a window on that side of the house, and Numbers believed that it was the one in the bedroom. A set of iron garden furniture, a small circular table and two chairs, were sitting under the wide roof overhang, looking abandoned. Numbers pulled one of the chairs from under the table. It was heavy and it screeched on the tiles loudly.

“Sit down,” Numbers said, pushing Joanna down on the chair. “Breathe.”

Joanna heaved a few breaths, and she calmed down a little. Numbers stood behind her. He didn’t want to look at her face. “Just a little longer. Everything will be over soon” he said to distract her as he drew his gun. He looked at Wrench. Numbers wasn’t looking for permission, or approval. He didn’t expect either. He just wanted to know that his partner understood why he was doing this. Wrench looked at him with wide-shock eyes, begging him, begging Numbers to do something, he didn’t know what, just begging.

He raised the gun and pointed it at the back of her head.

Joanna gasped, and began to hyperventilate. Numbers didn’t know how the fuck she could do it. Maybe she had heard the click when he had taken the safety off. Or perhaps she could just sense what was happening, through some honest-to-god inexplicable, fucking _intuition_.

“Please, please, please,” she was crying again, desperate. “Please, I won’t tell anyone, I promise, please.”

Numbers closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He was shivering like he’d stepped into the winter night completely naked. He saw Wrench signing out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t focus, he couldn’t even think straight. Everything was blurring out. Just like a train slows down when approaching a station, Numbers felt space and time slowing down around him as he approached his point of no return.

“Please, please,” Joanna cried. “You don’t have to do this.”

He blinked, feeling a drop of sweat run down his face, and aimed. Breathe in, finger on the trigger.

His hand moved.

Breathe out, let go.

A loud gunshot echoed in the night, assaulting his ears.

The bullet impacted on the wall to his right and ricocheted, leaving an indented hole in the bricks.

Joanna screamed, or tried to, but Numbers covered her mouth with his hand before she could make any sound.

“Now, listen to me, Joanna” he whispered in her ear. “You’re getting out of here, but I need you to do something for me first. I need you to stay here and not make any noise. I need you to stay put until I come back, and then I’ll take you home. Can you do that for me?” She nodded. He smiled. “Good girl.” Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. She gasped, and ran her tongue over her dry lips.

She swayed a little when he let go of her, but quickly found her balance and stood there, her head cast down. He gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “Wait here.”

Numbers then turned to his partner. Wrench was looking at him, always the quiet giant, unwavering and nonjudgmental, waiting for the next move. His face was guarded and unreadable, as always when he had the “hitman mode” on. Their work was not done yet.

 _‘Are you with me?’_ Numbers asked.

Wrench drew a circle in the air with his index finger twice.

_‘Always.’_

Not wasting another second, they skittered around the back of the house and went back inside through the patio door.

Kirby was in the kitchenette, fiddling with a coffee maker. His henchman was nowhere to be seen. He looked up when he heard them enter.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. “You’re not just leaving that mess for me to clea–”

He didn’t see it coming when Wrench grabbed him by the collar of his shirt to pull him closer across the kitchen counter and stabbed him in the face with his hunting knife. The empty coffee pot shattered on the floor. Mr. Kirby, the highly articulate businessman and sociopath, was dead before he even hit the floor.

Wrench retrieved his knife from Kirby’s eye socket and asked his partner, _‘Where’s the other one?’_

Numbers got his gun ready. _‘Go check the front, I’ll look inside the house.’_

His partner nodded and took off. He left through the back, surely to sneak around the side of the house and catch Holt by surprise if the man was indeed still taking guard by the driveway.

Numbers did a quick search of the rest of the rooms. It was a single-floor house with no basement, there weren’t a lot of places Holt could be hiding in. And that assuming he already knew what was going on, which was unlikely. Using a knife instead of shooting Kirby might have given them a few minutes or seconds of advantage. The office and the bathroom were empty, so was the sole bedroom. Numbers felt his pulse accelerate. If Holt was not inside, he had to be either taking watch at the front or…

Numbers dashed down the hall. He didn’t have time to question the sudden pang of worry and protectiveness that soared up in him.

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that Joanna was still where he left her, shivering but otherwise perfectly ok. He almost felt disappointed that she hadn’t tried to run away. Of course, her having her hands tied behind her back and being blindfolded and in the middle of nowhere and it being freezing cold outside, she wasn’t going to get very far, and she most likely had reached that conclusion herself.

She didn’t seem to hear him. He backed away quietly. He needed to get his partner.

He turned around only to be greeted with a fist to his face.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you the moment I saw you” Holt spat out, punching him again. Where the fuck had he come from?

Numbers didn’t actually feel much pain right away due to adrenaline, but the whole upper half of his body twisted to the side with the force of the impact. He blinked, disoriented, and his watery eyes focused on Holt’s _en garde_ fists. _Stay down_. Yeah, fuck that. He quickly got over the shock and tried shooting at Holt, but his opponent used some kickboxing technique to twist his wrist before he could take aim. A bullet went flying sideways, hitting a window somewhere. A few feet away, Joanna screamed. They grappled, Holt trying to force his hands into pointing the gun at himself.

“Joanna, get out!” Numbers blurted out.

Holt kicked Numbers in the shin, making him drop to one knee. His grip on Numbers’ wrist was unrelenting. Realizing that he wasn’t going to win this fight that way, Numbers used his last bit of strength to jerk his hands to the side and throw the gun as far away as he could into the bushes, where it disappeared in the darkness. Now if Holt had another gun himself Numbers was fucked, but if he hadn’t used it yet, then he probably didn’t. What kind of oddball fucking mobster didn’t carry a gun?

Numbers tried kneeing Holt in the balls, but the other man blocked it with some weird leg play trick and tackled him to the ground. Holt was a bulky guy, all stocky muscle, and this was a fight to the death. He wrapped his hands around Numbers’ throat and squeezed with his thumbs, crushing his windpipe. Numbers tried to remember what he knew about getting out of a chokehold. He knew that he had between ten and fifteen seconds before he lost consciousness. _Don’t panic. Don’t panic_. He started to see spots of light dancing behind his eyes as his brain began to run out of oxygen. In a desperate fashion, he extended his right arm over his head, and brought his elbow crashing down on the hands crushing his windpipe. The hold around his neck loosened, giving him a small window of opportunity to kick Holt in the solar plexus and roll around.

Numbers didn’t waste time trying to place another hit, he just crawled away. He tried to stand up, but Holt jumped on his back and knocked his head to the ground. His vision went grey around the edges.

“Oh, no, you fucking don’t!” That monster pulled his head back painfully by the hair. In his dazed state of mind, Numbers barely registered the glint of a blade in front of his face. “I’m going to gouge your eyes out and make you eat them.”

Numbers could only think of one thing in that moment. Where the hell was Wrench? He had to be dead, or at least severely incapacitated, his beaten and defeated mind concluded. There was no other way that his partner would leave him in that situation. He braced himself for the pain and darkness that were about to come.

And then it didn’t.

He heard a thud, and the weight on his back slipped away. He rolled to the side, panting. In the blur, he made out the shape of a tall, suede-wearing figure beating down on his attacker mercilessly with an unknown object. Numbers closed his eyes and let the cold air fill his lungs. Breathe in, breathe out.

Then there were gentle hands on his face and pulling him upwards. He was still too confused.

 _‘Are you okay?’_ Wrench repeated that question twice, his face aghast. Numbers just grabbed his partner’s jacket for support and hauled himself up on his feet.

 _‘I just realized that I’m shit at boxing’_ Numbers signed once he got full control of his limbs back in order.

Wrench looked at him with dismay for a second, and then hugged him, giving him a hard kiss on the top of his head.

Peeking over his partner’s shoulder, Numbers saw Holt slumped on the ground face down, his head busted in like a watermelon. A familiar organic chemistry textbook was lying on the ground next to him, the pages stuck together with blood. Well thank you, Professor Wade. You probably didn’t have in mind for your book to be used as a deadly weapon when you wrote it, but thanks anyway.

They pulled apart slowly, and Numbers directed his gaze to the far end of the patio. Joanna was crouching down below the window, stuck to the wall and trying to make herself as small as possible. Everything was dead quiet save for Joanna crying quietly in the corner. The moon was low in the sky, it wouldn’t be long until sunrise. Numbers gazed down at the blood on the slate tiles, which looked black under the moonlight, and felt sick to his stomach. _I was this close to dying. Actually dying._

He locked eyes with Wrench, feeling a lump in his throat. His left hand gripped his partner’s jacket like a lifeline. He raised the other hand to his lips timidly. _‘Thank you.’_

Wrench looked like he was close to tears himself. _‘You’re a fucking idiot.’_ He hugged him again.

 And then Wrench raised the uncomfortable question that was hanging in the air over their heads.

_‘Now what?’_

 


	8. Bridgekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cruel and unusual.

Numbers started a mental countdown, like the ones they had in the movies right before a rocket launch. _T minus_ three hours. Maybe four if he was being generous. Two and a half if he was being realistic.

That was the amount of time they had to put a good distance between themselves and all the people they had ever associated with before their bosses found out what had just happened. He could hear that metaphorical clock ticking inside his head, louder than Joanna’s soft crying and his and Wrench’s footsteps on the snow. They had opened a door, crossed a line, and now they couldn’t go back. It just wasn’t official yet. They had a few hours left during which they would be wading through some sort of limbo where consequences didn’t exist. If a mobster and his enforcer get stabbed in the woods and there’s nobody around to see it, do they make a noise? But when that countdown reached zero, it was over. The rocket would be launched through the stratosphere. There would be a price over their heads, and once they started running, they’d never be allowed to stop.

What they did during those hours of grace in limbo would make all the difference.

The first thing he did was dive into the shrubs by the patio and look for his gun.

_‘What are you doing?'_ He assumed that was what Wrench was signing as he rummaged through the foliage. He just raised a hand in a universal ‘hold on’ gesture and kept looking. Damn, he couldn’t see a thing. But he needed to find his pistol. It was an undocumented gun of course, like most of the weapons that Fargo supplied their enforcers with, with no way to trace it to them. As Carlyle had extensively studied the matter in the past, if their hitmen were dumb enough to get caught in the act, a felony charge for illegal possession of a firearm would be the least of their problems. Finally, his hand brushed against what he first thought was a stone, but it felt too smooth and angular. He got up and holstered his pistol after putting the safety on.

He backtracked on his own footsteps, shuffling his feet along the way to erase the shoeprints he’d left in the snow, and ran back to where his partner was waiting. He kneeled next to Holt’s body, careful to not step on the puddle of blood, and searched through the dead man’s pockets. He took all the cash in the wallet but left everything else.

_‘Did you leave any fingerprints in the house?’_ he asked. Wrench shook his head. _‘Watch the girl, I’ll be back in a minute.’_

Numbers hurried back inside. Kirby was sprawled on the floor behind the kitchen counter, one arm thrown across his chest and the other stretched out in front of him, his mouth still open in a surprise. One eye was open and the other was just a dark gash oozing blood and fluid. Numbers took the man’s gun and holster and all the money he was carrying. He went to the office and searched through Kirby’s papers in a hurry. He didn’t have time to read them thoroughly, but he didn’t see anything that concerned him directly, just a bunch of technical and legal stuff probably related to the shady business Kirby had been running with Joanna’s father. He was looking for personal information, things like home addresses or phone numbers. After a few seconds of fruitless searching, Numbers gave up and left the room. He took a couple of spare blankets that he found in a closet in the bedroom, then he grabbed a plastic bag from one of the cabinets in the kitchen area and threw all the food that he could carry inside it. He looked up and saw the disposable phone still resting on top of the counter, waiting for a call that would never be made. An idea occurred to him and he checked the call history in the phone’s menu. He identified two of the numbers in the outgoing calls as Fargo’s offices from all the times he had called them himself. The other two, he didn’t recognize. One of them had to be Caplan’s, and the other one was probably Kirby’s lawyer like the man had mentioned or something. He ran back to the office and wrote both numbers down on a piece of paper. Then he threw the burner phone on the floor and smashed it to pieces with his foot.

He did a final scan on the house before leaving. There were a bunch of muddy footprints on the floorboards in the hall. Numbers wasn’t sure whose prints they were, but all the same he grabbed a mop from the cabinet and quickly cleaned them up. That done, he took everything he needed and went outside, grabbing Joanna’s backpack on his way out.

Numbers cut the duct tape that bound Joanna’s wrists together and spun her around until she was face to face with him, her wrists held tightly in his hands. “You’re doing great so far. Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned her. He took a piece of rope and tied her hands together. It was little more than a formality at that point, but let it not be said that he wasn’t thorough. _‘Let’s go’_ he signed to Wrench.

Wrench picked Joanna up in his arms wordlessly (she didn’t react much to it this time) and trailed behind him. Numbers unlocked their car and threw the things he was carrying inside, and then he threw the lid of the trunk open and waved at it with urgency.

Wrench frowned, and since he couldn’t sign his disagreement, he shook his head vigorously.

_‘Come, on, just put her in the trunk’_ Numbers signed impatiently. Wrench just kept shaking his head. _‘It will be just a few miles, tops! She’s already terrified, what difference does it make at this point?’_ His partner didn’t give an inch. “Oh, fucking hell, fine!” Joanna whimpered at the harsh tone of his voice, and he shut up immediately. Scowling, Numbers closed the trunk gently and held the backseat door open. Wrench laid the girl across the length of the seat, and Numbers passed him a blanket without a word. Wrench covered her with it up to her nose, so all that was visible of her was a large lump with a mop brown hair at the end. She placed her bound hands underneath her, her pale fingers curled against each other. Numbers saw her lips move soundlessly, muttering silent words. He closed the door and got into the passenger seat.

Before Wrench turned on the ignition, Numbers requested, _‘Give me your phone.’_

They took off into the night, driving as fast as they could from that place. Numbers took the battery out of Wrench’s cell phone and did the same to his own. Once they had driven a reasonable distance from the house, he threw both phones out the window. He waited a couple of minutes, and did the same with the batteries. Wrench glanced sideways at him as he did so, not saying anything.

Numbers looked over his shoulder at the girl, mostly to make sure that she didn’t get any funny ideas like pulling down her blindfold. She hadn’t moved, and if Numbers didn’t know any better he’d have thought she was asleep.

_‘Talk to her’_ Wrench signed with one hand.

_‘Why?’_

His partner only took his eyes off the road for a moment to frown at him like he was an idiot. Numbers sighed and craned his neck to the back of the car.

“Hey, it’s almost over. We’ll take you to a safe place, and then you’ll never see us again.” He said. His voice came out hoarse and raspy, and his throat hurt when he spoke.

Joanna didn’t say anything, she just made a noise that sounded like a stifled sob. Numbers cursed in his head. Shit, he really was bad at this. He changed the subject in an attempt to distract her. “You volunteer at the hospital, right? It makes sense, I guess. I saw your books, so I figure you’re trying to apply for med school, right? That’s- that’s great. Yeah. What does a hospital volunteer do, exactly? I don’t really understand how it works.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t make more sounds of distress either, so Numbers counted it as progress. “You’re not very chatty, are you?” He asked. “That’s okay. Too many people out there just don’t know how to shut up. I never really noticed how noisy and annoying most people are, but when you spend most of your day in silence, well, you get used to…” _Don’t tell her personal stuff, you fucking moron._ “Nevermind,” he said with a cough.

He stopped talking after that. They drove in silence for a few minutes, until he heard a barely audible single word being uttered behind him.

“Errands.”

Numbers twisted around in his seat. “What?”

“In the hospital. I run errands for people,” came the answer from under the frayed blanket. “I- I carry papers for doctors and nurses… Sometimes I take blood samples to the lab… And we make blankets for patients, too. I’m learning to crochet.”

“Okay,” he said. “That’s awesome.” He coughed again. “I don’t know why, I imagined it being more like, like you held people’s hands while the doctors dug in their insides or something,” he chuckled nervously. “What you say makes more sense.”

“I’m not allowed in the OR,” Joanna said. “But sometimes they let me watch from the gallery. I saw an appendectomy the other day.”

“Oh. That sounds cool.” He remarked, for a lack of a better word. “And gross. But very cool. You look like a smart kid, Joanna. You’ll be okay. I bet you had your pick of colleges to choose from, but you stayed in Minnesota. You didn't want to move too far away from home. You wanted to stay close to your family.”

He didn’t know why he had said that. She shifted under the blanket, making it slid off her head a little. Numbers stared.

"You stopped,” he said suddenly. “In the street. Before you walked in front of that alley. You stopped, because you felt that something was wrong. Ever felt that? That weird feeling in your gut, your hairs standing on end suddenly and for no reason. It’s that sense of intuition that we all have, the one that warns you of danger before you see it. Not everyone knows how to listen to it, though. Most people shrug it off as paranoia and carry on as if nothing. And most of the time they’re right, but not always. Your gut told you to cross the street and not get any closer to that alley, but you chose to ignore it. There's a life lesson. Always trust your gut, Joanna.” He watched the dark silhouettes of trees passing fast through the windows and sighed. “Always trust your gut.”

They arrived at a crossroads just as the sun was starting to rise in the horizon, and Wrench stopped the car. A sign indicated the name of a town down the way to their left, just a couple of miles away. The other three directions took them to more faraway places. Wrench helped Joanna out of the car, careful so she didn’t bump her head, and led her to stand on the curb with her back to the road.

Numbers retrieved her backpack from the car and dropped it at her feet. “Here’s your stuff. Um, sorry about your book. There’s a town about half a mile away to the west. You can call home from there.” Then he realized something. “Hey, how come you didn’t have a cell phone with you?”

“I forgot it at home” she said, almost apologetically.

“Seriously?” Numbers shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. People ‘round here, anyone will gladly let you borrow their phone. Fuck, I bet they’ll invite you home and cook you breakfast or something.”

Joanna nodded weakly. She looked like she was only half listening to what he was saying. It was still dark, as the light slowly spread through the sky and made things only a little more clear, the shapeless black and grey giving way to real colors little by little. It took Numbers a moment to notice that she was shivering with cold. He cursed under his breath. He emptied the pockets of his coat, making sure to not leave anything behind, and shrugged the garment off his shoulders. Wrench gave him an inquisitive look. Numbers approached the girl slowly and wrapped his coat around her shoulders.

“There, better.” Numbers considered himself a pretty average guy physically, but the coat still looked huge on her. “One last thing. Don’t take off the blindfold until after we’re gone. Count up to three hundred, then you can turn around. I left the rope loose, so you should be able to untie yourself quickly. Is that clear?”

She nodded. Numbers stepped back. “Three hundred seconds,” he repeated, backing away. “We’re sorry. Goodbye.”

They scurried back to the vehicle. Wrench asked him, _‘which way?’_ as he fumbled with the seatbelt.

Numbers swiveled his head in the three directions and made a choice on a whim. Without further consideration, he signaled for his partner to head north, and off they went. That was why they had dropped her off at a crossroads. The way she was positioned, she wouldn’t be able to tell in which direction they had gone just from the sound of the car. Numbers watched her diminishing form in the rear view mirror until he didn’t see her anymore.

They drove in silence for twenty minutes or so, until the landscape was bathed in bright and cold daylight. They didn’t run across a single car during that time.

_‘I liked that coat’_ Numbers signed when Wrench looked at him.

_‘I’ll buy you a new one,’_ Wrench answered quickly.

They passed by a solitary small church in a field. An old woman was outside, setting out the letter board by the road. Like a diligent worshipper, she had woken up at first light to compose the message of the day. _WE ARE FOREIGNERS AND STRANGERS IN YOUR SIGHT AS WERE ALL OUR ANCESTORS_ , it read.

Two towns over, Wrench pulled the car in the parking lot of a shopping mall. _‘Wait. You’re covered in blood,’_ Numbers pointed out.

Wrench looked down at the reddish stains on his sleeves and front. He shucked his jacket and threw it on the backseat. Numbers checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked abysmal, with two black eyes and a broken nose. A face like that in public would surely get heads turning, and not in a good way.

_‘Maybe you should stay in the car’_ Wrench said, reading his thoughts.

_‘Yeah, you’re right. Be quick. Get some painkillers if you can.’_

Numbers waited with his gun ready on his lap, keeping an eye out the window the whole time. The bruises on his face hurt like hell and he just wanted to be back in his bed in his apartment and go to sleep.

“What the fuck are we doing” he whispered. He honestly had no idea how they were going to get out of that mess. It was one thing to screw up during a job, because normally in that situation they could call Fargo and HQ would sent reinforcements to help them sort it out. Through Fargo they had contacts, allies. Without Fargo, they were literally on their own. Numbers was under no illusions, he knew he couldn’t just throw a completely made-up but plausible story at his bosses and hope that they would just admonish him and the next day everything would be back to normal. Not this time. He and Wrench had crossed a line and there was no going back. Their own people would be after their heads in a few hours if they weren’t already.

Wrench came back fifteen minutes later. He had bought a fur-lined aviator jacket for himself (fringe jackets were not that common, and it wasn’t like they could just stop by at the dry cleaner any time soon) and a wool coat in charcoal grey for Numbers.

_‘They didn’t have anything left in black. Sorry’_ Wrench said, giving him a bottle of Tylenol.

_‘It’s okay. Close enough.’_ Numbers unscrewed the bottle and swallowed two tablets dry. _‘This place is too exposed, we have to leave. Let’s find a quiet spot and rest for a bit while we think our next move.’_

They found a semi-secluded rest area twenty miles northwest. They parked the car underneath a white birch tree and sat on the hood of the car to eat some of their provisions. Numbers took small bites out of a ripe pear, while Wrench opened a can of sardines and devoured them like a hungry wolf, the oil dripping down his mouth.

_‘We can’t go back to our apartment.’_ Numbers said. _‘They’ll be waiting for us there.’_

_‘I know.’_

_‘We just have to get to the safebox. I don’t want to go anywhere near Fargo right now, so we’ll have to take a detour through the south. Once we have our money and new IDs, we’ll be able to move with more freedom. I was thinking we could go west. Like waaaay far west’_ he punctuated extending his hand exaggeratedly to his left as his fingers spelled the ‘W’ letter. _‘Tripoli controls the whole territory around here, but it’s impossible his power extends to some bumfuck fishing town in the coast of O-R-E-G-O-N.’_ Numbers was pretty sure that he knew the sign for the state of Oregon. Wrench had gone through a whole lesson in Geography with him more than once. He’d taught him signs for all states, as well as most major cities and a bunch of foreign countries. He was sure that he knew it, he just couldn’t remember.

Wrench took a moment to remind him how to say the name of the Pacific wonderland in ASL. _‘And after that? How the fuck are we going to earn a living in a fishing town in Oregon?’_

_‘I don’t know!’_ Numbers signed angrily. _‘We’ll figure it out. One thing at a time.’_

Wrench silently offered a sardine as a peace offering. Numbers sighed and took it after signing a quick _‘thanks’_. It tasted strong and salty.

_‘Viper tried running away too.’_ Wrench said with a look of anguish. _‘He went all the way to the East coast, and they still found him.’_

_‘Maybe he didn’t run far enough. We might be luckier than him. But I’m sure as hell not staying around here doing nothing, waiting for Tripoli to come down on our heads.’_ Numbers flung the remains of his pear into the bushes. _‘We’ll have to get rid of the car at some point. It’s been to a crime scene. It’s C-O-M-P-R-O-M-I-S-E-D.’_

_‘Okay.’_

_‘In fact, you should burn the jacket,’_ Numbers added, jerking his head to the crumpled blood-splattered fringe jacket in the backseat. Wrench opened his mouth with indignation, but Numbers cut him off before he could protest. _‘It’s covered in the DNA of two dead people! I’m not letting you go to jail just because it has sentimental value or some shit!’_

Wrench stared at him with his mouth agape for a moment. He tossed the empty can of sardines to the ground and rounded the car. There was an old barbeque grill mounted on a block of concrete next to some picnic tables, and it looked like it hadn’t been used in ages. Wrench retrieved his fringe jacket and a flask of lighter fluid and walked towards the grill in big angry strides.

Quick flames burst out right away, filling the air with black smoke. Numbers gave his partner an apologetic look. _‘Sorry. These things come with the job.’_ He gave Wrench a pat on the shoulder, and added with a small smile, _‘I’ll buy you a new one.’_

They watched the straps of leather coil and disintegrate in the fire.

_‘We have to go to Minneapolis.’_ Numbers said. It wasn’t far away, and they had been heading in that direction anyway, although they didn’t have a plan up until that moment.

_‘Why?’_ Wrench asked.

Numbers produced Kirby’s credit card from his pocket and showed it to Wrench. _‘They’ll probably track down Kirby’s credit card purchases. If we use it to buy tickets somewhere far away, we could trick Fargo and send them in the wrong direction.’_

_‘It’s risky.’_

_‘Only if we wait too long to do it.’_ Numbers checked his watch. _‘I think we still have an hour or so before all the alarms start going off in Fargo. Come on.’_

When they were driving past a small frozen pond on the way to Minneapolis, Wrench stopped the car for a moment to throw the knife he had used to kill Kirby out the window. The weapon broke the surface of the water with a pop and a small splash and disappeared.

 

Joanna counted. She was up to two-hundred and thirty-five when she heard a car coming behind her. She stopped counting, not knowing what to do. A small voice in her head warned her, maybe _they changed their minds and they came back to finish you off_. No, please God no, anything but that. She heard the sound of tires screeching to a halt on the asphalt. She spun around and brought her tied hands up to her face to shrug the blindfold off.

A dark green Honda had stopped in the middle of the road. There was only one man inside it. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, clambering out of his car. “Miss, are you alright? What happened?”

 

They pushed through the crowd in the bus station, keeping their heads down to avoid the security cameras. Numbers bought two tickets to Philadelphia and later threw them out in a trash can two blocks down the street, along with Kirby’s credit card. He couldn’t help but smile a little. It was Carlyle who’d taught him all about those things, things like phone tracking and electronic bank trails and how to circumvent them. Tripoli had raised them to be the efficient killers they were, yes, but it was Carlyle who had actually taught them about logistics and the practical little things that prevented them from ending up behind bars. It was Carlyle who kept the syndicate updated on the advances of forensic science and technology, the two biggest foes of organized crime in the twenty-first century. And now Numbers was using that knowledge against his mentors, throwing it in their faces. _Have fun running in circles around Philly looking for us, fuckface_ , he thought.

They stopped in a quiet cafeteria west of Bloomington and chose a table in the back corner, where they had a clear view of the whole place and where they were also situated close to the kitchen door in case they needed to make a quick escape through the back. Numbers tried to clean himself up as much as he could in the restroom, but there was nothing that could speed up the healing of his bruises except a bag of ice and a lot of rest. At least nothing seemed broken.

_‘With luck, those bus tickets will buy us some time.’_ Numbers said, taking small bites from his food. It hurt when he swallowed.

_‘I’m not sure Carlyle will fall for it. He’s too smart for that.’_

Numbers shrugged without looking up from his plate. He raised his hands slightly to sign ‘still worth a shot’, but he changed his mind and put them down again. He didn’t really feel like talking.

Wrench put a gentle hand on his wrist. _‘What’s wrong?’_

Numbers shook his head and looked out the window. The streets were slowly filling up with people as the morning advanced. It was just another day, and even if it felt like their world had ended, the rest of the world moved on as usual.

_‘We shouldn’t have been there. This fucking job wasn’t even meant for us.’_

And that was the part that really made him furious, wasn’t it? Carlyle had dumped that mousetrap of a job on them on a whim just because Roland hadn’t made an appearance and they happened to be in the room. Only because stupid fucktard Roland couldn’t even bother to check his phone and make it to a work meeting in time. But if Numbers was going to play the blame game, he could just as well blame Tripoli for being a bloodthirsty bastard and giving the go ahead to this whole madness, he could blame Wally Caplan for being a corrupt scumbag who thought it was a good idea to mess with some very bad people he should never have messed with in the first place; hell, he could blame Joanna herself for not listening to her instincts and taking a different route back home.

But thinking all that was a futile exercise in self-pity, and it just amounted to a clenching pain in his chest that aggravated when he looked at his partner. His ever loyal partner, who was as uncertain and clueless as he was, but still looked up to Numbers for guidance. Now that was funny. Numbers had no idea what he was doing, he was pretty much playing this by ear, but Wrench still looked at him like he believed wholeheartedly that Numbers would just come up with some brilliant plan and everything would be okay.

_‘I’m sorry I got you into this mess.’_

_‘What the fuck are you talking about?’_ Wrench said with a scowl that was equal parts confusion and indignation. _‘Every decision we make, we make it together. You and I. I’m not going anywhere.’_

Numbers smiled weakly. “I guess this has been a long time coming for us, right?” he said softly. Then he both signed and said out loud, “It was inevitable.”

Wrench reached out and squeezed his hand briefly. Then he gave Numbers a look that made it clear he was apologizing in advance for what he was about to say.

_‘Tripoli is not going to let this go.’_

_‘No shit’_ Numbers deadpanned.

_‘No, I mean he’s not going to stop until he cuts every loose end.’_ Wrench pointed out the window. _‘That girl is not safe out there.’_

_‘That’s not our problem anymore.’_

_‘Except it is,’_ Wrench said adamantly. _‘We already went through all this trouble to keep her alive, we have to see it through to the end. If Fargo ends up killing her and her father anyway, then it was all for nothing.’_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Numbers hissed, but the truth was, he agreed. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He raised a hand to catch the attention of the waitress, and once he had paid the bill plus tip, he stormed out of the restaurant, Wrench trotting behind him.

_‘Let me see the map’_ Numbers demanded. Wrench took the Minnesota state road map from the glove compartment and spread it out over the hood of the car. They always kept several maps and travel guides with them, as they never knew in advance where the next job might take them.

_‘If we dropped her off here,’_ Numbers pointed to an intersection of two lines in the map _‘and assuming she went towards the nearest town, my best guess is that they must have taken her to the clinic in L-O-N-S-D-A-L-E. If she’s not there, then my bet is on one of the medical centers in N-O-R-T-H-F-I-E-L-D.’_ he circled both locations in the map with a pen. _‘Maybe even one of the hospitals in L-A-K-E-V-I-L-L-E,’_ he added, pointing at the metropolitan area south of Minneapolis.

_‘That’s a pretty broad area,’_ Wrench said.

Numbers sighed. He tapped the pen on the map absentmindedly, and an idea suddenly occurred to him. _‘I might be able to narrow it down.’_

_‘How?’_

He produced the piece of paper with the phone numbers from Kirby’s disposable phone. _‘I’ll try calling the father.’_

They drove until they found a working payphone, and Wrench kept on the lookout by his side as Numbers slid some coins in the slot. On his first call he was greeted by a formal female voice that said, “Bascomb and Hayes, risk management and consulting services, how may I help you?” He hung up the receiver and tried again.

This time a man answered. “Yes?” He said with clear apprehension.

“Mr. Caplan,” Numbers said, “do you realize how lucky you are right now?”

There was no answer for a few seconds. Then the man on the other side of the line spoke with a clipped voice. “Wh-who is this?”

“You know very well who this is.”

“Look,” Caplan hissed, “I already did everything you asked. What else do you want?” The man sounded stressed out, and it wasn’t hard for Numbers to imagine him sitting in a hospital waiting room, pressing his phone close to his ear and looking over his shoulder nervously.

“My boss wanted to send a message,” Numbers said. “Do you understand what that means?”

The line went silent for a moment. “Yes,” came the rustle of the councilman’s croaked voice “I do.”

“I managed to stall him for a while, but he’s not one to be easily swayed” he said, putting enough inflection in his voice to emphasize the urgency of the situation. “You and your family are not out of danger yet.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“We should meet.” Numbers said calmly. “As soon as possible. There’s a lot to discuss. You name the time and place,” he conceded. He knew the man would be easier to convince if he thought he had some semblance of control.

Caplan told him an address and asked Numbers to meet him there at six, and then promptly ended the call. Numbers asked Wrench to see the road map again. He took one look at it and said, _‘He’s in L-A-K-E-V-I-L-L-E.’_

_‘How do you know?’_

Numbers signaled at a point in the map. _‘That’s where he wants to meet. He doesn’t want us anywhere near his daughter right now, but he doesn’t want to go too far away from her either. The distance fits.’_ That reasoning was mostly an educated guess on his part, but Numbers was fairly sure that he’d guessed right. Like, seventy percent sure. _‘Let’s go.’_

 

One of the good things about hospitals was that a guy walking around with a battered face didn’t raise any eyebrows. But just in case, Numbers snatched a foam cervical collar from a cart and put it on around his neck to blend in more easily. They looked around in the ER and then sneaked into a hallway when the nurse behind the reception desk wasn’t looking. Nobody paid any attention to them, everyone was too busy or too caught up in their own worrying and pain to notice two more faces among the crowd. Skirting around a corner, Numbers almost bumped on an old lady in a wheelchair and in order to dodge her he stepped on somebody’s foot. “Excuse me,” he apologized to the man sitting down in one of the plastic chairs whom he’d just aggravated, and scooted off.

They stopped dead in their tracks when they caught a glimpse of a police officer at the end of the corridor. They backed away until they could watch safely from behind a vending machine. The officer was clearly standing guard by one of the patient rooms, and Numbers didn’t want to get any closer than that. They waited, and a man came out of the room. He appeared to be in his fifties, and he looked like he had not slept the whole night. Numbers gave Wrench a short nod, and they made their quiet exit out of the hospital.

_‘What now? Do we just sit in the car making time until six?’_ Wrench asked when they were outside.

_‘Hell no. Let’s speed things up.’_

They found another phone booth three blocks down the street. This time there was a shorter wait until Caplan picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Caplan, can you spare ten minutes right now?” Numbers said.

“We said six o’clock. Why are you calling me now?” The man asked. He sounded irritated.

“I’m in a hurry. I won’t be able to stay much longer, I’m afraid.”

“This is really not a good time.”

“Hey, it’s not my daughter they almost shot last night just to prove a point,” he heard a sound like a choked sob on the other end of the line, and he pressed on. “If it’s such a bother to you, I can just leave town right now and let you deal with my boss and his goons all by yourself. It’s no skin off my back.”

“No, wait! Dear God, don’t hang up! Fine, fine, I’ll see you now! Just tell me where!”

“Let’s meet in, let’s say, half an hour. There’s a funeral home a mile north from your location. Park in the front, walk around to the back of the building, and wait for me. I you don’t see me after fifteen minutes, go back and wait for me to call you again. Be careful.” He ended the call without giving Caplan any time to protest, and jerked his head towards the car.

He was still wearing the foam collar from the hospital. He took it off and threw it in the backseat. Wrench raised an eyebrow with mild amusement, as if questioning why he was keeping it. “Shut up, it’s comfy,” Numbers grumbled, fastening his seatbelt.

Numbers expected Wally Caplan to be wary and inspect the area with suspicion before getting out of his car, so they made sure to be well hidden behind the trees before the councilman arrived. The troubled father walked up to the funeral home, watching out over his shoulder all the way. They watched him pace back and forth by the building, checking his watch many times. Eventually, after the agreed on fifteen minutes had passed, Mr. Caplan desisted and started walking back in the direction of his Audi. Numbers slunk away from the cover of the trees and sneaked up on the man.

He pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of Caplan’s head, and the councilman immediately froze. “Don’t turn around,” Numbers said harshly.

“Okay. Okay,” Caplan said. He raised his hands slowly without being asked to, and Numbers wondered if it was not the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him. _Of course it’s not, you idiot, he fought in a war, remember?_

“This is all your fault,” Numbers said through gritted teeth. He was seething. He hadn’t felt like this up until seeing Caplan up close, and now all the pent-up anger from the last twenty-four hours was bursting through all at once. “You created this situation.”

“I won’t disagree with you on that” Caplan said with a clipped voice.

“Did you think you could keep pissing off a bunch of crime lords and not expect something like this to happen? Are you seriously that stupid?” Numbers saw Wrench giving him a look out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. “Do you have any idea how much this has cost me?”

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Caplan turned his head sideways ever so slightly, and Numbers pressed the gun harder. “Don’t fucking move or I’ll shoot you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Caplan, I personally don’t give a shit about what happens to you,” Numbers said outright. “But you know what? This isn’t about you, it’s about your daughter. So if you care even a little bit about her wellbeing, you’re going to get her very far away from here today, because my boss doesn’t like to leave things unfinished, if you catch my drift. I don’t care how you do it, send her off to some relatives on the other side of the country, hide her in a convent, put her on a plane to fucking Poland for all I care. But fucking do something before it’s too late.”

“I know, I know. I already know what I’m going to do, you don’t have to worry,” Mr. Caplan muttered. Then he added, with a bittersweet tone to his voice, “She has that effect on people, doesn’t she? She loves people and people love her.”

“Shut up!” Numbers said, but the man went on.

“She wants to be a pediatrician, for God’s sake! I-I remember holding her in my arms when she was little and thinking, ‘there’s no way she’s mine. She’s so bright and caring. There’s not a glimmer of me in this child’. People like me don’t spawn people like Joanna. A-after my wife died, I ran a paternity test behind Joanna’s back, and you know what? Turns out she _is_ my daughter. And believe me, nobody was more surprised than I was! And I thought, well, if-if a scumbag like me can make something so perfect, what does that say about this world? What does that say about us?”

“Shut up,” Numbers repeated, but there was no steam left in him. He drew in a sharp breath, blinking heavily.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Caplan said again, whispering.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Numbers growled. “So now, are you going to stop playing with gangsters like a suicidal asshole? Are you going to own up to your mistakes and do something right for once in your fucking life?” _Who are you talking to right now, Grady?_

“Yes, yes, I will.”

“You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Mr. Caplan. Most of the people I meet in circumstances like these don’t usually have the luxury to walk away. You don’t deserve this.”

“I know, believe me, I know.”

Numbers stepped back slowly, but he kept pointing the gun at the man’s back the whole time. “Stay where you are. If you turn around before we’re gone, you’re a fucking dead man.”

“Okay, I understand, I understand.”

The two hitmen took a few steps back, and then they took off running towards their car. Numbers looked out the window as they drove away from that place. Caplan hadn’t moved.

 

They drove southwest for about twenty minutes. The road went on in front of them like a blank chalkboard, empty and unknown and full of questions, just like their future. They arrived at another small town with a forgettable name. Wrench did a couple of turns around the main street and parked in front of a closed dentist’s practice.

_‘We’re low on bullets,’_ he said. _‘I saw an armory around the corner. We should buy more ammo before the shop closes.’_

_‘Okay’_ Numbers said.

_‘What did the father say?’_ Wrench clearly had been waiting that whole time to ask him that question.

Numbers shrugged. _‘Typical self-flagellating bullshit.’_ He made quite the literal visual representation of whipping one’s own back to illustrate that, and Wrench seemed to get it. _‘He wanted me to feel sorry for him. Fuck him. But he listened to me, so at least we won’t have to worry about the girl anymore.’_

Wrench nodded.

_‘You go buy ammo. I need to make one last phone call before we leave.’_ Numbers said.

_‘What? Who do you have to call?’_

Numbers swallowed, and he averted his partner’s gaze for a moment. _‘Remember the box we found in Zapper’s house? The one I told you to leave there?’_

Wrench nodded again, looking at him warily.

_‘I’ve changed my mind. There’s no reason to keep that a secret anymore. Fuck Fargo and fuck all the shit like that they allowed to happen.’_

A small lopsided smile appeared on Wrench’s face. He tapped his wristwatch. _‘Hurry.’_

_‘See you in ten minutes.’_

There was a payphone in the next street, in front of a car shop. Numbers put his hand on the plastic wall and took a deep breath. “Okay. You can do this,” he said under his breath. He put some coins in the slot and dialed the number he’d memorized long ago in case he ever decided to do something like this.

“Steele County Sheriff’s office, how can I help you?” A female voice greeted him.

“My name is Eduardo Ellison,” he said lowly, trying to sound as different as possible from his natural tone to mask his real voice. Since his throat was still pretty fucked up from the strangulation attempt, it wasn’t that difficult. “You found a dead girl in my house two months ago.”

The woman on the other end dropped her cordiality right away and her voice took on a tone of cold professionalism. “Sir, I need you to repeat what you just said.”

“You didn’t look hard enough. You missed a lot of stuff” he said, ignoring the officer’s request. “Look again. Behind the clock in the living room. Have fun trying to catch me. And don’t forget to call the papers.”

“Sir, I must ask you to state your current location. Please hold the li…”

Numbers hung up the receiver softly and closed his eyes. The bitter wind echoed inside the walls of the phone booth. It seemed like he was making his leave out of Fargo in a blaze of sabotaging fury, screwing the syndicate in any way he could with the few resources he had left. He was neck-deep in shit at the moment, but at least that was one thing he could scratch off his conscience. Maybe now he would stop dreaming about closed doors and voices begging him to stop.

And now they needed to get their asses out of that town before the police traced the address of that payphone.

Wrench hadn’t returned from the armory yet and it was freezing cold, so he decided to wait inside the car. Heck, he was almost looking forward to replacing that old piece of junk. That car had been with them through countless misadventures; but at the end of the day, it was just a mean to go from point A to point B, and Numbers knew how pointless it was to get attached to material possessions in their line of work. He just hoped they could get a decent replacement for a cheap price with their emergency money. He’d rather not draw more heat on themselves by driving around in a stolen car unless they absolutely had to.

He went to unlock the door, but found the key jamming in the lock. He tried again, but for some reason the key wouldn’t fit in the slot. Frowning, he leaned down to look at it closely. They lock couldn’t have frozen that fast, right? He touched it lightly and felt something gooey and sticky on his fingertip.

Somebody had put super glue in the lock of their car.

“Shit,” he said. He caught the reflection of someone coming up behind him in the car window before his head was slammed against the door and everything faded to black.

 

“…remind me to never pee in the bushes in the dark again. I think that was poison oak.”

“You’ll know for sure if there’s a rash and a burning sensation in your genitals over the next few days.”

“And you would know about that, wouldn’t you.”

“Bell, your weird fixation with my STDs is quite suspicious.”

“Can you two morons shut the fuck up for a minute and pay attention to what you’re doing? Fuck, I have to do everything myself.”

Numbers woke up to a buzzing headache and a fog of confusing noises. The voices got louder and clear and the world came into focus in a flash of bright light that blinded him momentarily, before diminishing to a single point somewhere far off to his left. Fighting against his dizziness, he tried to focus, and his gaze fell upon the source of the light, which was an electric lantern placed on a tree stump. They were in a small clearing somewhere in the middle of the forest, and it was nighttime already. He didn’t know how much time had passed. Numbers was face down on the ground, his head twisted to the side. Three blurry figures stood in front of him, while a fourth one was lying on the ground. He tried to move his arms, and found that his hands were tied behind his back. The constrictive feeling against his wrists told him that they had used plastic zip ties. The shapes slowly came into focus, and Numbers easily recognized them. Dunbar, Rafferty and Bell. Great, just his three favourite colleagues. Or should he say, ex-colleagues. Looking on, he saw Wrench on the ground, still unconscious. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His first instinct was to get closer to him, but all he could manage was to roll on his side so he was facing his partner, and an involuntary groan escaped his throat.

Dunbar turned around to the sound and looked down at him with a manic grin on his face. “Oh, look who’s decided to join us! I was getting worried I hit you so hard I left you in a coma, that’d be no fun at all.”

Numbers squirmed, trying to get up. “You…”

Dunbar ignored him and turned to his two subordinates. “Wake the other one.”

Bell pulled Wrench upright on his knees and slapped him a few times until the taller hitman regained consciousness. Wrench awoke with a gasp and looked at his surroundings in confusion, his eyes darting everywhere with fear and anger. Then he met Numbers’ eyes across the clearing. The few feet that separated them felt like an enormous distance. Wrench let out a croaked cry of fury and tried to propel himself forward. Bell grabbed his shoulder and punched him in the face so hard that his nose started bleeding. The rage that surged in Numbers in that moment gave him the strength to begin to stand up.

“Don’t fucking touch him, you asshole!” He screamed, and got punched in the face for the third time in twenty-four hours.

“Stay still, you little fucker,” Dunbar said, forcing Numbers to a kneeling position. Out of the corner of his eyes, Numbers saw that Rafferty had his gun pointed at him, while Bell was doing the same with Wrench, who was shaking with jagged breaths. Wrench glared at the gangsters looming over him, blood trickling down his face, and it looked like the only thing that was keeping him from launching himself towards his partner and tearing Dunbar’s face off with his teeth was Bell’s gun trained on his head.

“You two are a pair of ungrateful bastards” Dunbar crouched down in front of Numbers until their faces were only inches apart. “One day you’re perfectly okay with the job and the cozy lifestyle it gives you, and the next you blow a fuse and decide to throw it all away.” The unpleasant smell of his breath hit Numbers in the face and he had to control himself not to grimace. “And for what? Because you felt bad about having to kill a cute girl? Where the fuck did that come from, really? Did you just develop a conscience overnight? I think you burned that bridge a long time ago, Numbers.”

“Yeah, I bet you know a lot about burning shit, you fucking pyro” Numbers spat out.

Dunbar groaned and rolled his eyes, like he was sick of hearing about that. “You set a building on fire _once_ and they never let you live it down.”

Numbers groaned in pain, struggling to focus. The trees were blurring out, and he blocked out Dunbar’s voice for a second. He fixed his gaze on the electric lantern, and its constant buzzing reminded him of a bug zapper frying mosquitoes on a porch on a summer night. Its glaring and artificial white light reminded him of a light bulb hanging from a high metal ceiling in an industrial unit.

_One day you’ll find yourself in my position, and you will remember this conversation._

"But no, the smartass always does whatever he wants and fuck orders, because he knows better than everyone else, right?” Dunbar was saying. “All these years, you and your lap dog, looking down on us like we're dirt under your shoes. Do you think I don't know when you two are mocking me in your stupid secret language? Is that it, Numbers? You think you're better than the rest of us?"

Dunbar kicked him in the ribs. Numbers doubled over in pain, panting. “Fuck you…”

“What’s the matter, pal?” Dunbar asked mockingly. “I thought you liked it rough!” He kicked Numbers again while he was down, knocking the breath out of him.

“Is there a point to all this?” Rafferty asked, sounding impatient. “I’d really like to get this over with and go home.”

“Shut up!” Dunbar shouted. “We stop when I say we stop.”

“Whatever.”

Numbers looked at his partner. Wrench was shaking, trying very hard not to show how scared he was. A sense of hopelessness fell upon Numbers in that moment, and he realized that there was no way out. They were not going to escape alive from this. A glint of fear and despair flashed across the deaf hitman’s eyes, like he could tell what he was thinking, and he looked like he was seconds away from breaking down completely. Numbers shook his head and started mouthing soundlessly whatever words of reassurance he could think of. _Hey, look at me. Don't look at them, look at me. It’s going to be okay. Keep your eyes on me._

Rafferty seemed to pick up on what he was doing. “Aww, looks like the two lovebirds want to share a few last words with each other. Why don’t we untie them so they can say goodbye properly?” He clearly meant that as sarcasm, but Dunbar didn’t realize that.

“Yeah, and let’s get them a motel room while we’re at it, jackass.” Dunbar paced through the clearing, taking off his jacket. He threw it under a tree and looked at Numbers. “You see, this whole thing about you two suddenly becoming a pair of goody-two-shoes, we’re not sure where it came from.” Dunbar mused. “We’re kind of taking bets here about it. I say it was your partner who dragged you down this self-sabotaging path, because let’s be honest, Numbers, you’re a real bastard. But big dumb over there? I’ve seen him punch a guy because he was rude to a waitress. Bell thinks… actually, he has no opinion on this, he’s above all that. But Rafferty has an interesting theory. He says, well, he says you two sort of convinced each other to try to leave the ‘dark side’. Like it was mutual. That’s adorable” he taunted Numbers. “He used an odd word to describe it. Whatchamacallit again, Rafferty?”

“A feedback loop” the shorter henchman provided.

Dunbar smirked. “Rafferty and his fancy words. He makes the rest of us look like cavemen.”

“Hey, somebody’s gotta be the civilized one in this group” the other quipped, without a trace of modesty.

Dunbar rolled up his sleeves, like he was about to perform some type of exhausting physical activity. “You know, when I moved to the Midwest eight years ago, and I found myself surrounded by all these weird people with Nordic names, it got me thinking. All these folks of Scandinavian ancestry, always so nice and polite, so gullible and trusting... they're like children. Always so friendly. That is, until you push them past their limit. You cross a line with them, and it's like a switch goes off in their heads, and suddenly they become very, _very_ unfriendly. It's like, I don't know, like their Viking genes activate or something. Seein' those folks, it picked my interest, so I did a bit of reading on Viking history.” As he said all this, he went over to a bag that was on the ground next to the lamp and pulled out a rolled up nylon package.

“Wait, you're seriously going to do this?” Bell asked incredulously, a look of realization dawning on his face. “I thought you were joking!”

“I’m just saying, I’m not helping you clean up after this,” Rafferty said offhandedly.

Numbers had a terrible feeling about where this soliloquy was going, and he felt his breath picking up.

“You will do whatever I tell you to do” Dunbar growled. Rafferty grumbled something and looked away. Dunbar unrolled the package and revealed an orderly assortment of knives and other objects of the surgical variety. Numbers couldn’t look away from them.

“So, the Vikings…” Dunbar continued, unsheathing a long curved knife from the collection and examining it in the light of the lantern. “The Vikings really knew how to go for shock value when it counted. They had this very unique execution method, one they saved for the big traitors, like killers of kings and things like that. What is it called, you may ask? Well, Numbers…” He brandished the knife in his hand like it was a sword. “Do you know what a blood eagle is?”

Numbers tried to tear his gaze away from the knife, but he was unable to. He felt like he was suffocating as panic settled in. He didn’t remember being so terrified in his life.

“…Well, how do I explain it?” Dunbar went on. “It’s like… a vivisection in reverse. No, wait, fuck, that’s not the right way to describe it. You know what, it’s best if I just show you.”

Dunbar started walking towards Wrench, and Numbers lost it.

“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” He got punched in the mouth for his trouble and felt the taste of blood in his tongue. He didn’t care, he just kept yelling.

“You know, I’ve always kind of wondered what your darling here sounds like,” Dunbar smiled with gleeful sadism and circled around Wrench until he was positioned behind his back. The deaf hitman squirmed, his eyes wide, and Bell punched him in the belly to make him stay still. “Do you think I can make him scream?”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU TOUCH ONE SINGLE HAIR ON HIS HEAD I WILL GUT YOU LIKE A FUCKING PIG–”

“Yeah, yeah, save it.” Dunbar pressed the tip of the knife against Wrench’s back and the other leaned away in reflex, but Bell held him still. Numbers noticed in that moment that they had taken off Wrench’s jacket and tied his hands in front of him, which normally would be considered a rookie’s mistake. But in this case, Numbers realized, it was completely intentional. That son of a bitch had planned that sadistic spectacle from the start.

“FINE!” He screamed, and felt tears trail down his face. “DO WHATEVER YOU WANT, BUT DON’T HURT HIM! YOU CAN SKIN ME ALIVE AND CUT ME TO PIECES IF YOU WANT, JUST DON’T DO THAT TO HIM!”

“Woah there, don’t be so eager,” Dunbar said with a smirk. “You’ll get your turn soon enough.” He began to rip Wrench’s sweater with an upwards cut in order to expose his back to the cold air. “Weep not, you soon will see each other in Valha–”

Dunbar didn’t get to finish his sentence. Before he was done tearing the piece of fabric with his knife, a bullet went through his skull and scattered his brains all over the trees. Rafferty and Bell jumped to action, raising their guns to the origin of the shot. It was dark and they couldn’t see anything among the trees. Bell fired blindly into the foliage, and from the depth of darkness, another two shots responded. One of them missed, and the other hit him square in the chest and he slumped to the floor, dead.

Rafferty scooted to the side, forgetting about his captives. “Who’s there?!” He shouted. “Show yourself, you fucking coward!”

Numbers took his opportunity. He jerked forward and used the momentum of his body to land a kick to the back of Rafferty’s shins, making him fall backwards. The goon landed on his back on the powdery snow, dropping his gun. Numbers knelt on one knee and quickly kicked it away. Rafferty looked at Numbers and then at the gun, as if trying to decide if it was worth it trying to reach it, but then another bullet from the invisible shooter went flying just a few inches past his head.

“Fuck this!” Rafferty said. Having decided to wash his hands off that whole debacle, he leaped to his feet and ran away. He didn’t get very far. Another bullet caught him through the back, more or less at the level where his lung should be. He made a gagging sound and stumbled, his knees giving in under him. Before he fell to the ground, a second shot hit him in the back of the head.

Numbers rose to his feet and wasted no time running to his partner’s side, who was staggering and leaning on the tree for support. They both looked in every direction, trying to see anything in the shadows. Numbers heard the sound of steps on the snow, and his hackles rose on end. His hands fumbled behind him until they got a hold of Wrench’s clothing. He stood between Wrench and the source of the sound like a pitiful human shield, his heart hammering in his chest.

A man appeared from the shadows, and the first thought that came to Numbers’ head was that he didn’t look at all like he’d expected. He looked quite average, to be honest. He was around his and Wrench’s age, maybe a few years older, with a mop of dark hair parted to the side and a broad and well structured face. He was gripping a pistol in his left hand, pointing it steadily at the ground as he walk towards them in determined steps.

Numbers instinctively gripped Wrench’s shirt and scurried backwards, dragging his partner with him, trying to get away from the stranger.

Their ‘savior’ wasn’t looking at them, he was looking at the three dead bodies scattered on the snow with shock, like he’d just realized what he had done. Then the man averted his gaze from the carnage. It was then when he noticed the terrified stance of the two survivors in front of him and his eyes widened. He holstered his gun and put his hands up in a non threatening gesture. "Woah, woah, calm down! I'm not going to hurt you, okay?” Slowly, he reached inside his pocket with his left hand and produced a small penknife, taking a tentative step forward. Numbers hissed, and the man stopped. “Look, I'm going to cut your ties now. Just calm down!"

Numbers exchanged a look with his partner, who gave him a small quivering nod. He turned to the stranger and bared his teeth at him as a warning. The stranger approached them very slowly, like they were scared feral animals trapped in a snare. He went around them, holding Numbers’ gaze the hold time. The stranger cut the duct tape holding Numbers' wrist with one sweep of his knife, and then scrambled backwards quickly, putting a polite distance between them. Numbers couldn't get to Wrench fast enough once he was free from his binds. His arms reached for his partner, untying him with desperate and shaky hands. He forgot all about the stranger standing just a few feet away and the three bodies at their feet as he patted Wrench up and down. He couldn't sign properly with his trembling hands to ask if he was hurt anywhere. Wrench shook his head and steadied him by taking his spastic wrists in his large hands. His face was pressed against his partner's chest and he felt Wrench’s chest shaking with suppressed sobs.

As much as he would have liked to just stand there and hug Wrench to an inch of his life, they didn't have time for that. He broke the embrace with one last squeeze and turned to the stranger. Still trying to process what the fuck had just happened, Numbers found it hard to speak. His mind was still reeling from the adrenaline and shock and he didn't know where to start.

"What-? How-? Why-?” The words spat out of his mouth and his hands flailed uselessly. He couldn’t come up with a coherent thought. Finally, he let out his most pressing question in that moment. “Who the fuck are you?!"

The stranger sighed, like that was the one question he'd been expecting. A cold gust of wind lifted through the woods, and the sound of the breeze in the trees was the only thing breaking the silence. And for a second, it was like each decision, every step along the way, had been leading inevitably to this exact moment in time. Like their destiny was always to cross paths with this stranger, and the three of them were to meet sooner or later.

"My name is Charlie Gerhardt. We need to talk."

 


	9. Teuton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now, my formidable foe, you will pay for my pain in the past with your pain in the future!”

It was a cloudy and chilly morning in the fall of 1983 when Charlie Gerhardt got out of prison. He was a couple of inches taller than the day he entered, and his face had lost most of its baby fat.

The gravel crunched underneath his feet as the heavy metal door closed behind him. He was wearing new clothes. He had outgrown the ones he’d been wearing the day he had been arrested, so his lawyer had dropped by a couple of days before his release date to leave him some things he would need. Charlie carried the bag with his few belongings with his good arm and took a deep breath to get a whiff of freedom. Even the air tasted different outside. The penitentiary had a courtyard, but it wasn’t the same.

When he looked up, he was met by the fervent gaze of his lawyer. The man was leaning back against his car with his arms crossed, looking like a burly buccaneer in a tweed jacket.

“Mr. Weathers,” Charlie stammered, his eyes wide. “You’re here.”

“Why the look of surprise, boy?” Karl Weathers asked with amusement. “I told you I would come pick you up.”

“Yes, but… I thought you wouldn’t be able to make it. Since you’re so busy and all…”

What Charlie had actually thought was that Karl would simply forget. His lawyer gave the impression of being very disorganized (although still puzzlingly competent) and truth be told, he didn’t always look completely sober when he came to talk with his client. But since he was basically the only person that ever came to visit him in prison, Charlie had no complaints.

“So what was your plan, then?” Karl asked. “You thought they’d let you loose on your own in the middle of nowhere, and then what?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. I was going to hitch a ride to town and then call you.”

Karl shook his head. “Get in the car, kid.”

Charlie spent the rest of the ride with his forehead against the car window and nodding along to Karl’s awkward attempts at small chat. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t in the mood for talking, Mr. Weathers did a fine job of filling the silence for the both of them.

“Has it really been four years?” The lawyer said. “See, I told you it’d be over before you even noticed. I knew you could pull through, Charles. The warden told me you were a model inmate.”

Charlie didn’t respond. He didn’t state the obvious, that the words ‘model inmate’ didn’t sound like an achievement one should be proud of. Karl gave him a concerned glance and kept driving in silence.

Charlie’s case, like most criminal cases, had not even gone to trial. His lawyer had managed to settle in a plea bargain with the prosecutors rather than drag the whole thing on unnecessarily for weeks, which would be not only painful but also expensive, for both sides. Mr. Weathers’ legal strategy had been to convince the prosecution that his uncle Dodd had coerced him into committing an assassination in his namesake. And although it didn’t exonerate Charlie of the responsibility of his own actions, it wasn’t hard to believe that the shy teenager sitting in the room with them had felt scared and threatened by his tyrannical uncle (Karl’s words) in a way that he had felt like he had no way out. The gist of the negotiation was, essentially, ‘you save us the hassle of paperwork and court fees and we won’t charge you as an adult’. Well, they didn’t say it with those words, but Charlie was smart enough to read between the lines. It didn’t hurt that Charlie didn’t have any previous offenses in his record and that he was, according to every living person who knew him, a good student and a kind boy who had never harmed a fly in his life. The judge and attorneys in the juvenile court had seen a poor crippled kid who had lost his family and who looked truly remorseful of what had happened. Charlie didn’t even have to fake any of those things. It was clear in their eyes that they pitied him more than anything.

A lot of people seemed to pity him these days.

Charlie roused from where he had been dozing off when he felt the car come to a stop. He looked out the window and saw a house that he didn’t recognize.

“Welcome to Villa Weathers” Karl said.

“This is your house?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know where else to take you. You have a meeting with your parole officer at four, you should take a shower first and look your best,” Karl explained, getting out of the car. “I bet you’re hungry too.”

A wave of panic suddenly surged up through him. “Wait, we’re in Luverne?!”

Charlie looked out the window. A man was walking a small dog down the street. He stopped, and gazed down in their direction. Charlie gasped and ducked down under the window, bringing his arm up over his head like he was bracing himself for an air raid.

The passenger door opened, and Mr. Weathers looked at him with a mix of confusion and amusement. “The hell are you doing, Charles?”

“I shouldn’t be here” Charlie said.

“What, you think there’s a mob outside waiting to lynch ya the moment you get out of the car?”

“N-no, but…”

Karl sighed. “Come on, I’ll make ya breakfast.”

The small town lawyer’s kitchen was messy, with dirty plates in the sink, cans of soup and fruit sitting randomly on every surface, and discarded utensils lying around waiting to be put away in their respective drawers, but there was a certain charm in the chaos. Charlie sat down at the table and watched as the older man waltzed around the kitchen stirring bowls of batter and flipping frying pans expertly. Karl was a surprisingly fast cook, and he managed to multitask several things at once without burning anything, like making breakfast was a choreography that he already knew by heart. He hummed happily as he cooked, a Carpenters song that they used to play on the radio all the damn time. In no time at all, a plate of pancakes and hash browns was served in front of Charlie.

“Thank you” the boy said demurely.

“We have a lot of things to discuss.” Karl said, sitting down at the other side of the table. “Your parole officer will try to set you up for a job, but we need to figure out where you’re going to live first. Your mother didn’t have any relatives that are still alive?”

“I don’t think so. She died when I was very young. I don’t remember anyone that wasn’t a Gerhardt or who didn’t work for the Gerhardts coming to her funeral.”

“What about your aunt Patricia? Would she be willing to take you in temporarily?”

Dodd’s widow had always seemed like a fragile and unstable woman, from what little interaction Charlie had had with her in his life. He doubted she would be up to the idea. But on the other hand, she had never been the one calling the shots in her household, and he had the suspicion that her passive nature hadn’t changed after Dodd’s and Simone’s deaths.

“I don’t know. We’ve never been really close.” Charlie reached out for the pitcher in the center of the table and poured himself a glass of water. “Karen is eighteen now, she must have started college this fall. If she’s moved out… maybe Patricia will let me stay in her room for a while.”

Karl nodded. “I’ll call her later. I think we can arrange a…” the phone in the entrance hall started ringing. “Wait a minute.”

Karl left and Charlie was left alone in the silent kitchen. He stared at his plate. Grandma and the family cook used to make hash browns for breakfast during deer season, when the men in the house would wake up before sunrise and hastily eat the food that Floyd had left for them in the table during the night and then leave before the other occupants in the state woke up. Charlie’s father had never let him take part in the hunting parties. He said it was too dangerous and exhausting, and grandma needed Charlie to help her out with other things. Charlie had complained once or twice, but he’d lost interest in hunting altogether when he’d stumbled upon his dad and one of his men skinning a stag in the shed and he’d almost lost his lunch right there. Charlie eventually came around the idea that he was much better suited for the tasks that his Oma gave him. She always kept him by her side, balancing the books and answering the mail. Charlie knew how to fill out the whole family’s taxes by age fifteen, and he had the vocabulary of a jurist at sixteen.

Karl strode back into the kitchen, shaking his head. “Damn telemarketers, no matter how many times you tell them to stuff it, they keep coming back to pester you… Oh.”

Karl had only left the room for five minutes and coming back, he’d found his client crying silently over a plate of untouched pancakes.

“Oh, um, we don’t have to talk about these things right now,” the lawyer said. “It can wait.”

Charlie tried to wipe the tears away, embarrassed, but they just kept flowing with nothing he could do about it. “I’m sorry.”

Karl squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Take it easy, kid. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

 

Charlie stayed at Karl’s house for a couple of days, until his aunt Patricia agreed to meet with them in her house. She had moved out of the old Gerhardt house before the trial, and was now residing with his three remaining daughters in a small two story house in Mayville. Patricia didn’t look thrilled to see her nephew by marriage. In fact, she looked like she wanted to bolt out of the room and lock herself in the bathroom until her two guests went away. Charlie was sitting awkwardly in an armchair, Karl standing by his side, while his aunt and eldest cousin regarded them from the frayed couch. The coffee table divided the two sides of the room like a frontline during peace negotiations. Patricia had a cigarette in her hand that she didn’t bring to her mouth once, she just kept flickering it over the ashtray nervously as Karl laid out all the reasons why Charlie would be a good addition to their little family unit. Patricia looked like she was barely listening, her face was detached and unfocused like her mind was in another world. Charlie knew this was a bad idea. It was Karen who did most of the talking. She had grown fast, in every possible way. Charlie suspected it was her who got everything done in that house and who stepped in to take charge when her mother wasn’t fit to do so.

“So, you’re okay with Charlie moving in?” Karl asked.

“Yes,” Karen said, smiling. Patricia bit her nails and fixed her eyes on the floor. “There’s enough room for the four of us.”

“I, uh, I won’t cause you any trouble.” Charlie stammered.

Later, Karl ushered the aloof Gerhardt widow out of the living room to talk some final arrangements with her, and Charlie and his cousin were left alone. An awkward silence fell upon them, and Charlie wished the floor would swallow him up. He had grown up with this girl. He had known her his whole life. Why did he suddenly feel like he didn’t have anything to say to her?

“Charlie, come sit with me” Karen requested, and he couldn’t say no.

He crossed the room and sat down on the side of the couch that his aunt had vacated. Karen took his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you in prison” she said, looking ashamed. “I wanted to, but mom wouldn’t let me. Last year, during Spring break, I told her I was going to spend the night at a friend’s and I caught a bus to the state pen instead. But they wouldn’t let me in without a guardian because I was underage.”

“It’s okay” he said. His throat was patched dry.

Karen turned his hand over and examined it, like she was looking for bruises or other signs of hardship.

“It was just so boring,” Charlie said, trying to make light of the situation. “I must’ve read Treasure Island a million times.”

She looked at him with sadness for a moment, and then she leaned forward and wrapped her thin arms around him.

“I missed you so much, Charlie” she whispered, sounding on the verge of tears.

“I’m here now.”

 

Charlie stayed in that house for a year, until he saved enough money to pay rent for his own place. He hadn’t wasted time during his time in prison, he had finished his High School diploma through correspondence and also enrolled in a few college preparatory classes while in there. After some time working small jobs to get back on his feet, he decided it was time to pick up his education where he’d left it and enrolled in a few courses in a community college. His parole officer seemed pleased with the idea. Mr. Weathers called him every couple of months to check up on him, and Charlie was surprised that the man bothered so much with him. Karl had done his job as a lawyer, Charlie had done his time and was on his way to full rehabilitation in society, they really didn’t have much business with each other anymore. Charlie guessed his case had struck a nerve with Karl.

“Do you ever like, forget for a moment that they’re gone?” Charlie had asked Karen one day. They were playing scrabble in the kitchen while the twins watched a movie. Patricia was taking one of her famous day-long naps.

“What do you mean?” she asked, putting down an ‘E’ at the end of the intersection between ‘CARTRIDGE’ and ‘PRISTINE’. Damn, she was good.

“The other night I forgot to lock the garage door before I went to bed. And when I saw it in the morning, for a second, just a second, I thought that my dad was going to give me shit about it. Then I remembered.”

Karen glared at the board set like it had personally insulted her. “Sometimes I still feel like Simone is going to come down the stairs, yelling which one of us took her foulard or something.”

“My lawyer says it gets easier with time.”

“If that’s what he says, I hope he didn’t charge you for that piece of wisdom.”

It was in college where, after enrolling in a kinesiology course out of pure curiosity, Charlie had picked an interest in prosthetics. It was ironic, the boy with only one fully functional arm who had served time for attempted murder wanting to learn how to design artificial limbs for amputees. Reality smacked him hard across the face when he realized that his disability, which had never deterred him from doing anything he wanted to do before, was an actual impediment for all the delicate manual labor that a master’s degree and residency in Prosthetics required. But never one to give up easily, Charlie had taken an alternative route. With a Business degree under his belt and through some networking, Charlie had partnered up with a biomedical engineer he had met through a friend and together they had founded a small medical manufacturer company. This had happened after several years of hard work and many setbacks, but the boring minutiae were for anecdotes told over a glass of wine during family dinners.

His relationship with his cousins had only strengthened with time. It was funny, because he and Karen hadn’t even been that close before everything had happened, and now they were each other’s most trusted confidants. They called each other regularly and spent time together quite often. Charlie had been there during all the important events in her life, and she in his.

“So, I met a guy” Karen had said casually one day. She was in her late twenties by then, a lady and a go-getter. Charlie had just signed his first big contract and was ecstatic. They were in a cocktail bar, celebrating.

“Did you now? Tell me about it.”

“His name’s Joel. He’s a programmer.”

“A computer geek, huh? I bet he conquered you with his extensive knowledge of MS-DOS.”

“You’d be surprised. Looks can be deceiving, you know.” She said quizzically, taking a sip of her Margarita.

How right she was.

It was different with the twins. Although Charlie was in good terms with Erika and Laura, to them Charlie had always been just kind of “there”. They had been two months shy of turning eight when their family had been decimated, and just twelve when their cousin had stepped back into their lives. Each one of them had taken different paths in life growing up. They were fraternal twins. Although there was some family resemblance, nobody would ever guess they were twins at first glance. Erika was the spitting image of her mother, chocolate brown hair, big almond eyes and big apple cheeks. Laura, like Karen and Simone, took after her father, with lighter hair, small eyes, and thin lips. Erika had gone to school for Psychology and turned into a career-oriented woman who spent her life asking people how their problems made them feel.

Laura was… well, she was a bit like Comet Halley. She made her presence visible periodically, only to disappear again and without warning for long stretches of time. Laura was an advocate of the Bohemian lifestyle, never taking roots anywhere or picking any profession in particular. Most of the time, not even her sisters could say for sure where she was or what she was doing.

It was the day of Karen and Joel’s wedding when Charlie realized how lucky he was. It was a little private celebration in the countryside, with less than fifty guests attending, the majority of which came on the groom’s part. The band was playing inside the marquee, the June breeze was shaking the grass in the meadow, and Charlie was dancing clumsily with Joel’s arthritic mother. He craned his neck over his dancing partner’s shoulder, and took in the scene around him. Erika was giggling to whatever one of Karen’s friends from work was telling her, the three daiquiris she’d had probably making whatever he was saying sound much funnier than it actually was. The newlyweds only had eyes for each other. Laura was sitting at one of the tables, showing to Joel’s eleven year old niece how to fold a napkin into a pretty swan.

And in that moment, it hit him how much he loved these girls, loved them like the sisters he never had.

 

Even with their family reduced to a tiny amount of what it once was, there was no shortage of drama. Most of it was caused by the differences between the three sisters. Once, after not hearing a word from Laura for weeks, Karen had received a call in the middle of the night concerning her youngest sister. She had been in the middle of breastfeeding her eight-month-old baby when the phone had started ringing, startling both mother and son. She had pressed the phone between ear and shoulder as she tried to simultaneously calm down the screaming baby and bite back a snarky reply to the dumbass who’d thought that was an appropriate hour to call. Karen Sharpe, formerly Gerhardt, was informed that her sister Laura Gerhardt had contracted Scrub typhus while working for a NGO in Rajasthan and would be flown back to the States as soon as she was stabilized.

“You couldn’t even call me to tell me you were in fucking India?!” Karen had barely restrained herself until the doctor left the room to read her sister the riot act.

Laura, looking as comfortable in her hospital bed in Chicago like she was resting in a spa, shrugged and flicked through the TV channels. “It was just typhus. Easily treatable. See? I’m fine now. No need to make a fuss about it.”

“You. Got. Typhus. In _India_!” Karen was actually shaking. “You could have _died_!”

“Honey, I think your sister needs to rest…” Joel gently tried to intervene.

“Don’t you ever stop and think twice before you act?! You’re like a fucking child!”

“Um, I think a nurse is coming this way” Charlie said. “She looks pissed.”

“Do you guys know if this thing has Discovery Channel?” Laura asked pressing hard on the buttons on the remote control.

Joel somehow managed to drag Karen out of the room to quench her fury with some apple pie from the cafeteria. Charlie stayed. He looked up at the TV that was bolted to the wall and watched the documentary with Laura. It was something about bottom-dweller fish in the deep abyss. He cocked his head to the side and looked at her. She looked mildly bored, but also strangely angelic and innocent, with her washed clean face and her uncombed hair falling around the pillow like a halo. Her face had always maintained a childlike look to it, even in adulthood.

“Laura, look at me.”

She turned her head towards him reluctantly.

“What now?”

“Why couldn’t you just tell us about your plans?” Charlie asked. “It’s not like we would’ve stopped you. It’s great that you’re doing charity work, really, but it’d be nice to have a heads up before you decide to fly to another continent.”

Laura sighed. “I didn’t… just hop on a plane on a whim. I’ve been working with that organization for a while now. We booked the tickets weeks ago. Karen has enough on her plate already with the baby… I didn’t see the point in making her worry even more.”

“Laura, you can’t just disappear to India without telling your family! Something could happen to you!”

She scoffed. “I’m twenty-six. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m trying to be understanding here, I really am. But sometimes the things you do make no sense at all.”

“Maybe that’s because you only see the final act.”

“What?”

Laura shimmied up in the pillows to sit up straight, wincing uncomfortably. “I mean, how do you expect to understand me when you’re only there to see the aftermath? You didn’t see the whole reasoning process in my head that I went through when I made the decision to teach English to children in Jaipur. It’s like…” Her eyes wandered to the TV, and for a moment Charlie thought that she’d gotten distracted and forgotten what she was going to say, until she found the words. “It’s like trying to understand a movie when you’ve only seen the third act.”

Charlie gave up. Trying to follow a conversation with that woman was like slamming yourself against a wall repeatedly. “Laura, please promise me you won’t do something like this again.”

“Okay, fine.” She said. “I promise.”

When she was fully recovered, Laura got on a plane back to India and stayed there for a year. She sent them postcards and pictures from Jaipur. Laura reading to a class of captivated children in maroon uniforms. Laura barefoot on the front steps of a temple. Laura standing by the river.

And so, the years passed. The Gerhardt sisters became full on women, Karen had two kids, and the prosthetics company prospered at a slow but steady rate. Charlie liked to think of himself as a self-made man, leaving the violent ways of his lost family behind him. His past life was like a distant memory, lost behind the hills. He never married. He liked to joke that he enjoyed the life of a perpetual bachelor too much to settle down. He’d had a few long term relationships with different women over the years, but his relationships never seemed to work no matter how much he tried. He thought it was because he had too many inner demons eating him up inside. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

He could have carried on living like that for the rest of his days. And he would have been perfectly happy with that arrangement, all things considered. But alas, things got complicated when opportunity came knocking on his door one November morning, quite literally.

He was in the middle of reading his emails when two knocks on the door warned him of the oncoming invasion of his private space, just two seconds before the door to his office opened suddenly. His secretary always had the courtesy of knocking before entering, but she let herself in whether he replied or not. Charlie was lenient with her on that little pesky habit.

“Charlie, you have a visitor,” she said. “He says he’s an old friend of your family.”

“What?”

“Says his name is Kleiner. Jeremy Kleiner.”

Now that was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. For a moment, he was too perplexed to respond. His secretary shifted in the doorway, expectantly.

“Um. Let him… let him in, Felicity. Oh, and hold my calls.”

“I bet you’ll have a lot to catch up on, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Felicity grinned and winked her eye at him before pulling back. A moment later, the door opened again and a man that looked to be in his seventies walked in. Charlie rose from his seat slowly and took a look at his visitor. The man looked frail, shrouded in his big faded coat like he was trying to hide in it.

“Charles Gerhardt,” Jeremy Kleiner said with a lopsided smile framed by wrinkles. “Well look at you, all grown up.” His voice was coarse and gravelly.

Charlie extended his hand across the desk. “Mr. Kleiner. To what do I owe the honor?”

Jeremy Kleiner used to be a smuggler operating out of Winnipeg who did business with the Gerhardt clan on a regular basis. Charlie used to reply to his letters at the kitchen table, his hand doing a perfect calligraphy of the words that his grandma dictated as she mixed porridge. Charlie had only met the man in person once. If he’d seen him on the street in the present he wouldn’t have even recognized him.

Kleiner took a seat on the other side of the desk, keeping his hands firmly in his pockets. The young Gerhardt stood there for a second, baffled, then put his hand down slowly and eased himself in his chair.

“This is impressive,” Kleiner said, looking around. “How big is your company?”

“We do okay” Charlie said curtly. “We’re in a very niche market, so that helps.”

“Well, your father would definitely be impressed” Kleiner said. Charlie didn’t respond, he just fixed his eyes on the old man with an emotionless expression on his face. “Ah, yes, it must be a painful subject for you to talk about. But alas, the motive of my visit forces me to bring up your family.”

“Mr. Kleiner,” Charlie interjected, “with all due respect, I have no idea of what you’re doing in my office. I don’t know what you and I could have to discuss.”

The guest clicked his tongue. “Let me ask you something, Charlie. Are you a family man?”

“Never been married.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking you if you consider the honor of your family name something important or not.”

Charlie felt his patience beginning to draw thin. “What are you doing here, Mr. Kleiner? Really? I’d really  appreciate it if you just went straight to the point.”

Kleiner gave him a mournful look. “When the Gerhardt clan was decimated… many of us who did business with them, the distributors, the dealers, we didn’t know what to do. Nobody knew who was supposed to be in charge anymore, and people were afraid. It was chaos. Then the Kansas City folks took over Fargo, and a lot of the guys thought they’d just continue business as usual with the new management. ‘The cycle of life’, they said. ‘Meet the new boss, same as old boss’. Personally, I decided to step back and mind my own business on my side of the border. I held your grandparents on too high regard to make a deal with those opportunistic rats, but I didn’t want a war with them either, so I just stayed out of it.”

“How very gracious of you” Charlie said dryly.

Kleiner frowned at him, but continued. “The thing is… Kansas City didn’t rule Fargo for long. Something happened. Or rather, someone happened.”

The old man pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, revealing the slight tremor of his hand, and left in on the desk between them. Charlie looked at it with confusion, then he looked at Kleiner, then at the paper again. Finally, he took the note and unfolded it carefully. Only two words were scratched across it in capital letters. _MOSES TRIPOLI_.

“Uh… Is this name supposed to mean anything to me?” Charlie asked carefully. He didn’t rule out the possibility that Kleiner was experiencing the first stages of senile dementia.

“Not the name. The man.” Kleiner grinned like he knew a secret that Charlie didn’t. “You didn’t find it strange how Hanzee Dent seemed to just disappear off the face of earth after he betrayed your family?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t exactly keep tabs on him and follow his trace from prison.”

“Ah, right. Your conviction. You got the raw end of the deal with that one, didn’t you? But considering that everyone else ended up six feet under, I’d say you were the lucky one.” Charlie glared, and Kleiner cleared his throat. “Anyway. Hanzee. He simply vanished. Nobody saw him ever again. Big scary Indian guy who talked with his knives more than with words? Hard to miss ‘im. The only possible explanation is that he died, but it’s hard to believe that a man like Hanzee got himself killed quietly after the stunt he pulled in Sioux Falls. And here’s the twist: not even a year later after that, some unknown barges into Fargo and takes over the whole operation. Massacres the Kansas City stand-ins with little effort until they have no option but to pull back. This guy builds his own empire on the ruins of the previous one and everybody is too scared of him to complain. This guy is a total mystery, nobody knows where he came from or what’s his deal. Too much of a coincidence, don’tcha think?”

Charlie stared at the man in front of him with disbelief, trying to process all that information. Was this some kind of sick joke? “That’s… that’s a fascinating tale, but I don’t see what any of it has to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you!” Kleiner shouted. Little drops of saliva darted out of his mouth, and Charlie flinched back in his chair. “Hanzee Dent. Moses Tripoli. Same man, different faces. It took me a while, but I finally put the pieces together. There, you have it. Mystery solved.”

“Why are you telling me this? I mean, why are you telling me _now_?”

Kleiner sighed. He produced a handkerchief that had little specks of what looked like blood all over it. He pressed it against his mouth and hacked loudly for a few seconds. Charlie already knew what his visitor was going to say next.

“Lung cancer,” Kleiner wheezed, putting down the handkerchief. “Stage four. Doctors give me six months, give or take.”

“I’m sorry.” Charlie said.

“Ironic, isn’t it? People that do what I do don’t get cancer. We’re expected to die sooner than that. From something much quicker, but that leaves a mess just as bad. Usually in the form of a pill made of lead.” He snickered. “I didn’t want to get involved in this any more than I already did, but since I don’t have much time left either way… I thought what the hell, I have nothing to lose. I’m in no shape to dig into this any further, but… This is a personal matter between Hanzee and the Gerhardts. So I figured I’d pass this information on to the last surviving Gerhardt.”

“I’m not the only Gerhardt remaining, you know” Charlie reminded him.

Kleiner scoffed. “You mean your cousins? Dodd’s bunch of ragtag girls? What are they now, housewives? No, let them live their happy little lives in peace. It wouldn’t do them any good to hear about this. No, you’re the only one left, Charles. Only you can put an end to this.”

Charlie felt a sudden spike of anger. Why him? Why was this any of his responsibility? And why had this relic of a long gone era come to him after all these years, when Charlie finally had his life back in order? “Why do you even care? Nobody came to our aid when my family was massacred! Nobody picked up their guns in outrage to avenge us! All of our so-called ‘allies’ were very quick to forget about us and carry on business with the Kansas City usurpers! Where the fuck were you when my cousins and I were left to our luck, alone with no friends? You just forgot we even existed!”

Charlie realized that he’d gotten up from his seat in anger when the door on the other side of the office opened gently and Felicity showed her head through the gap. Charlie looked at her like a deer in the headlights, his left hand clenched in a tight fist on the table. Kleiner turned around in his chair.

“Everything okay here?” she asked.

“Yes, everything’s fine.” Charlie said. “Go back to your… things.”

His secretary looked at him with suspicion for a moment before closing the door again. Kleiner stared at the closed door before swirling back to face Charlie and cracking a mischievous smile. “Nice.”

“Excuse me?”

“Man, I wouldn’t mind having someone like that standing by my deathbed. Does she stay up overtime when you ask her to? She looks very _obliging_.”

Charlie felt a pang of anger at those words, a different kind of anger, more hidden. “Mr. Kleiner, you made your point. You have ten seconds before I politely ask you to leave.”

“You’re right, I told you everything I know. Now it’s up to you to do something about it.”

“Do something about it?” Charlie laughed humorlessly. “If you’re so keen on bringing down your own twisted version of justice, you had decades to do so yourself. You dropped the ball, and now you expect me to pick it up for you so you can die with a clear conscience? Who do you think I am?”

“So that’s it? I’m literally giving you the man who caused all the disgraces in your family, and you’re just going to sit back and do nothing?” Kleiner gave Charlie a look of scorn, like the young Gerhardt was too unworthy to carry on this crusade of his. “Fine, keep burying your head in the sand. I should have seen this coming before I came here. I knew your father and that’s what he would’ve done, ‘wait and see’. Always waiting for someone else to tell him what to do, always too afraid to take matters into his own hands. You’re just as spineless and pathetic as he was.”

Charlie was left speechless for a moment, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He guessed that Kleiner was trying to provoke some kind of reaction out of him with those words, but he realized that he didn’t care. He just wanted that man out of his sight. He stood up, tall and imposing, or at least as imposing as his unimpressive height allowed to. “This conversation is over.”

Kleiner rose to his feet as well, still grinning that stupid smile of his. “Now where’s the famous Gerhardt pride? Both of your uncles would have rearranged my face for speaking like that. Now that I think about it, maybe it’s better if you forget about all this. You’re clearly not fit to carry on the legacy.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s only out of respect for cancer victims that I’m not kicking your ass this very second. Now get out of my office.”

The man sneered. He casually walked up to Charlie, face all smug, and he whispered: “You think you’re so noble, don’t you? You’re above all this. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, golden boy.” He pulled out a business card from his pocket and put it down on the table with a wink of his eye. “You’ve got my number if you change your mind.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Charlie heard the door click shut when his guest left and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. He stayed like that for a while long after Kleiner had gone, trying to regain his composure. He heard the low screech of the door opening and then there was a soft hand on top of his.

“Charlie,” Felicity asked softly. “Are you okay?”

He blinked. Her nail polish was a light mauve, like lavender flowers. Her fingers were atop his paralyzed hand, her touch casual but determined. People were wary to touch his deformed limb consciously, like it was diseased. Charlie had tried to explain several times that he didn’t mind, it didn’t hurt when people touched him on his bad arm, and it wasn’t like it was going to fall off like he had leprosy. But it didn’t matter, it was some kind of self-imposed taboo for some people, so he’d stopped bringing it up.

“Yes, don’t worry,” he said, putting his hand away. Felicity looked him in the eye, and he swallowed. “I’m sorry about the screaming. Things got a bit out of hand for a moment.”

She frowned. “Should’ve told him to make an appointment. People are so rude.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Charlie said. “Nothing could have prepared me for this encounter.”

“Something I should know about?”

“No. It was a personal family matter.”

“Do you… wanna talk about it?”

Charlie looked at his secretary. He considered telling her everything, or even just a small part of it. The clipped version of the Great Gerhardt Tragedy, leaving out the parts about how his closest relatives used to be a bunch of crime lords who took part in illicit business all over the Midwest and got themselves killed in a turf war because of it.

Maybe one day. “No, it’s fine. Forget about it.”

 

Some days later found him ringing the door at Karen’s house with a bottle of Pinot under his arm. It was going to be a quiet Thanksgiving this year. Joel’s parents alternated each year which one of their children they were going to spend the holidays with, and this time it wasn’t their computer programmer son. Charlie knew that Erika would be there with her current boyfriend and fiancé. She vehemently insisted that she was serious with this one, although she had broken up an engagement before. Didn’t matter, Charlie thought, it was none of his business. Laura had called a few days in advance to announce that she wouldn’t be able to make it, she was… Charlie had no actual idea where she was. Last time he’d checked, Laura had been touring the East Coast with a travelling theater company, where she worked in the costume department, but that had been in the summer.

He found his two nephews in the living room. Patrick was sitting cross-legged on the couch, nibbling on a piece of celery. His younger sister, Audrey, was lying down on the rug, babbling to herself and not following the lines of her coloring book. Karen and Joel were in the kitchen, tending to the last few bits of the Thanksgiving dinner. They had grown tired of Charlie fussing around and asking them if they needed any help, so they had sent him away with the request of watching over the kids.

Charlie knew that, strictly speaking, those kids were not his nephew and niece. They were his first-cousins-once-removed, if you wanted to get technical about it. It was just that they had always referred to him as their uncle, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. That was who he was these days, apparently. Cool Uncle Charlie. He could live with that.

“What are you watching?” He asked the ten-year-old boy as he made himself comfortable in the couch next to him.

“Samurai Jack,” Patrick answered, his eyes glued to the screen.

Charlie gazed over to the TV, where a stylized cartoon samurai was slicing through hordes of robots with his katana in a very cinematic fashion. He watched it in silence for a few minutes, perplexed. It looked a bit too grim and gritty for a children’s cartoon. “What’s this show about?” He asked after a while.

“Well, uh, this guy, Jack, is a samurai” Patrick explained. “He had a home and a family, and his parents were the emperors of Japan I think. But this really evil demon Aku came and destroyed his home and took over the country and I guess he killed his family.”

The show had very sparse dialogue, and the main character in particular hardly spoke at all. Charlie decided that he liked him just because of that fact. The animation showed a close-up of the eyes of the samurai. He looked conflicted about what he was about to do.

“That’s terrible,” Charlie said, his voice weak.

“And then Jack tried to kill Aku,” Patrick continued, “but Aku has magic powers and stuff so he sent Jack thousands of years into the future, and, and, in the future Aku is like, the emperor of the whole world and everybody is suffering because Aku is too powerful and nobody can stop him. So Jack has to, uh, he has to find a way to travel back to the past and kill Aku before he gets too powerful takes over the world.”

Charlie fidgeted with his key ring. The paper with the name that Kleiner had given him was burning in his pocket. “So, his world is destroyed and everyone he loves is dead.” He summarized. “And in the future, his enemy, the one who took everything from him, is the one who rules and has all the power.”

“Yep,” Patrick said.

“Does Jack win in the end?” Charlie asked. “He goes back in time and kills the demon and makes everything right?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said, frowning. “I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

Joel shouted from the kitchen that dinner was ready.

By the time they were through the second course, Charlie had already made up his mind.

The very next day, Charlie booted up his laptop and looked up private detectives in the area until he found one that looked competent. He called Mr. Ibsen from a public payphone and made an appointment with him to explain the details of his case. And that was how the ball started rolling.

A small part of him believed that nothing would come out of it, anyway. Hanzee Dent had fallen off the radar almost thirty years before and nobody had heard of him ever since. What Kleiner had told him were nothing more than rumours, smoke and mirrors. Kleiner had made the connection between Hanzee and this Tripoli fella all by himself, based on… what? On a hunch? A coincidence? To think that any of it would have any connection to Hanzee was a very long shot. An even smaller part of Charlie _hoped_ that nothing would come out of it.

Ibsen was a bit reluctant to take the job at first, but he was easy to convince once Charlie offered to pay the full price upfront. Charlie guessed that he could afford that kind of expense just this time. After all, it was the first time in over a quarter of a century that he had a chance at finding some answers. While Ibsen was out of town earning his pay, Charlie did some digging of his own. The evening he met with the PI again, five days later, everything changed.

He took one look at the photo that Ibsen showed him, and with just one look, he knew. He just knew.

It didn’t matter how many years had passed. It didn’t matter that his uncle’s former enforcer had gotten more plastic surgery done on him than a character in a cheesy spy movie. Charlie would recognize those eyes anywhere.

 _And from now on, it’s up to you_ , a voice that sounded too similar to his father’s told him.

That was how the little weekend trips to Fargo had started. He decided to take a slow approach as he couldn’t dedicate a great deal of his already meager free time to that personal enterprise. After all, he had a job and responsibilities and he couldn’t just drop them to embark on a one-man revenge mission, that was not how things worked. The first couple of times, he drove for hours from Rochester to Fargo just to sit in his car and watch the supposed crime syndicate building from a distance. He was quick to realize that he was utterly wasting his time. He still had Kleiner’s business card in his desk, like he was trying to prove a point to himself. They kept a lot of burner phones in his company that their salespeople and representatives used when they had to leave on business trips to meet with distributors and hospital administrators. On the 21st of December, Charlie found himself alone at work after everyone else had called it a day. He took one of the phones from the storage room, shut himself in his office, and dialed Kleiner’s number begrudgingly.

The voice wrecked by carcinoma answered at the second tone. “I knew you’d come around, Charles.” He sounded amused.

“How the hell did you know it was me?”

“Do you think I get a lot of calls lately?”

“I don’t know. You must have friends concerned about your state and checking how you’re doing, at least. Right?”

“Oh boy. You’re adorable.” _Boy_. Charlie was a grown-ass man in his forties, but it seemed like he’d always be a boy for some people. He’d better get used to it. He heard coughing at the other end of the line. It went on for a few seconds, and then the voice came rustling again. “So, what’s the plan, old sport?”

“Let’s just say that I’m willing to look into this… thing.” Charlie said, measuring his words carefully. “But as you must know, this isn’t exactly a job for one person. The… odds are not in my favor, the way things are at the moment.”

“So what do you need? Reinforcements? I’m a bit short on that, sorry.”

Charlie clenched his jaw. “I need a gun.”

Kleiner replied to that with a loud burst of laughter. “You’re aware of what country you live in, right? You don’t need my help with that.”

“I guess you’re not the type to concern yourself about the legality of things, but according to the law, I’m not allowed to get a gun permit or purchase a firearm with a felony conviction. Hell, I can’t even own ammo, I think.”

“And you don’t know anyone who could help you bypass that annoying legal restriction through… alternative means?”

“Sure, just let me check my dad’s old contact list. Oh right, I don’t have it anymore.” Charlie said sarcastically. “Can you help me with that or not?”

Kleiner went quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, “Let me make a few calls. I’ll take care of it.”

As he was coming out of his office, Charlie bumped into his secretary who was trying to come in. She bounced back, stunned to see him there.

He cleared his throat. “Oh, hey, Felicity. Um, I thought everyone else had left.”

“Oh. Yeah! I was just… Just going to leave this on your desk before I go.” She said, showing him the bulky package she was carrying. It was wrapped in shiny paper with little reindeers on it.

“What’s that?” He asked.

“Your Christmas present!” She said, smiling brightly. “It arrived early and I don’t have room in my closet for it.”

“Oh… that’s nice. Um, you really didn’t have to…”

“Come on, just take the damn thing!” She kept smiling through gritted teeth, and pushed the package on his hands a bit forcefully. He took it, the look of utter confusion still all over his face. This was the third Christmas for Felicity that she’d been working for him. The first year, he’d given her a gift card because he’d heard it was common etiquette to buy a little something for your personal assistant to acknowledge your appreciation of them, but didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to buy or not. Despite his insistence that no, she didn’t have to buy him any presents, Felicity had surprised him by getting him a bottle of cologne that, although not expensive, made his gift card look cheap in comparison. The second year he’d bought her a set of business suitcases, a professional investment as he’d called it, and she had bought him a collection of Murakami short stories. “Because I know you’re the spiritual type”, she’d said, whatever that meant.

Charlie weighed the unprompted gift in his hands. It was bulky, but not too heavy. Felicity was shuffling her feet nervously, a little smile still on her face.

“What the hell, let’s open it right now. I can’t wait for another two days. ” he said, relenting. She beamed. He walked to his desk, Felicity following behind, and he put the package down. Without saying a word, she helped him tear open the wrapping paper. When he saw what the package contained, his eyes went wide with surprise.

He ran his fingers through the lapels of the wool coat, feeling the soft texture of the fabric. “Felicity, this is… this is too much.” He said sternly. “How much did it cost you? Oh, nevermind, I don’t think I want to know.”

She laughed. “I have a friend who works in retail, silly. You’d be surprised how many items go unsold at the end of each season and get discarded. You can get a lot of great stuff at a fraction of the price through the right contacts.”

“My resourceful assistant, always full of surprises,” he said. “It’s so… blue.”

“Yeah, I thought this colour suited you. And you’re too peculiar for boring navy blue, no, you needed a bright azure blue. Or was it cobalt? I can’t remember.”

“I’m peculiar?”

“Anyway, I think it fits your personality. It’s the colour of lightning.”

“And poison dart frogs.” He pointed out. Discovery Chanel was rubbing off on him. “Thank you, Felicity. You outdid yourself. How did you get the idea?”

“Remember last month, when you had lunch with that rep from Mayo Clinic? You turned up looking like a hobo.”

“I did not!”

“I really appreciate you, Charlie, and I’m sorry, but you really need some help in that department.” She put her hand on his arm playfully. “Sometimes you forget, but you _are_ a CEO, so you kinda have to dress the part.”

“You’re toeing a dangerous line, Miss Hayes,” he said, but he didn’t mean it.

She chuckled. “Enjoy your present. I better get going now. Goodnight, Charlie.”

“Goodnight.”

He thought about the potted plant he’d bought her this year, which was currently resting on the kitchen counter in his apartment until the annual Christmas party when he intended to give it to her. He looked down at the folded coat across his desk, then he thought about the crappy plant that was probably losing his leaves on his kitchen floor that very second, and he suddenly felt very stupid.

The next day, Charlie took a trip to Fargo. He’d already made room in his schedule for it by making up excuses for everyone, as he did every time he drove to his old hometown for his personal amateur spy endeavor. All the stores were packed with people who had made the mistake of waiting until the last minute to do their Christmas shopping. He passed by a jewelry shop on his way to the syndicate’s building, the thought buzzing in the back of his head. He parked in the corner of the street, watched the front of the building for about half an hour, got frustrated, and then he got antsy. Had those two guys noticed him? It looked like they were looking in his direction, but Charlie wasn’t sure. He was pretty sure he’d seen the one in black lurking around the building before, and the tall one didn’t look like the type of guy you’d want to piss off. Yep, it was definitively time for Charlie to fuck off.

He drove off around the block and pulled up in front of the jewelry shop. He stared at the window display for a full minute. _Oh, fuck it_. Before he had time to convince himself of how this crossed the line into what was grossly inappropriate, Charlie walked into the shop and bought a pair of earrings. Just a cheap knickknack, nothing too fancy. Besides, the potted plant was turning an unflattering shade of brown at that point.

On Christmas Eve, he stayed the night in the guest room at Karen’s house. He spent the next day setting up a Scalextric circuit with Patrick and helping Audrey make figures with play-dough.

Three days later, as he was going home, a man came out of the shadows in the parking lot and accosted him before Charlie had time to react.

“Charles Gerhardt?” The man asked.

“Yes,” Charlie said, curling his fingers around his keys in his pocket like a makeshift brass knuckle.

There was a tense pause. And then the man smiled and offered him a box wrapped in brown paper. “Our mutual friend from Winnipeg asked me to get you this.”

Charlie took the box gingerly. The man gave him a two-finger salute and disappeared.

Charlie waited until he was back in his apartment to open the box. A Walther PPK and three extra clips. He removed the magazine, pulled the slide back with one hand to check that the chamber was empty, and pointed it at the wall, looking down the sights. He tested its weight in his hand. It felt strangely familiar. He’d learned to use a gun behind his father’s back, shooting down beer bottles in the woods when the adults were away. That had been a lifetime ago, but he supposed it was a bit like learning to ride a bicycle. There was a note inside the box. _If you need more ammo, call this number_. Charlie put the gun back in the box and shoved it under his bed. In the weeks that followed, he would spend many hours sneaking into the backwoods to illegally shoot at crudely drawn bullseyes.

New Year’s Eve found him back in Fargo, being the most useless covert observer in the world as usual. He hadn’t expected the waitress at the diner to recognize him. He hadn’t recognized her at first, either. Then he remembered. She was Susan Dobson, his old tutor from eighth grade. His dad used to drop him off at her house twice a week when he’d had trouble with algebra. Well, she hadn’t remembered him completely, not enough to put a name to his face, but her reaction had put him on alert all the same.

He needed to change his strategy, fast.

Charlie wasn’t sure why he’d gotten fixated on the tall guy and the guy in black. He’d seen plenty of suspicious-looking men come and go from that building in his stakeouts, but something about those two just felt… odd. And in his experience, odd usually meant interesting. Useful. He’d followed them to the place where he assumed they lived, he’d watched their apartment building for a while, and then he’d driven back to Rochester just in time to attend the New Year’s party at his own company. A lot of people shook hands with him and pulled him aside to talk with him about the great working relationship they hoped to have with his company in the future. Everybody seemed to have big plans for the next year.

“Do you have any new year’s resolutions?” He asked Felicity. They were standing in a corner by the snack table, both of them trying to get away from the tumult of the party for a minute.

“Oh, I dunno” she said, swirling the champagne glass in her hand. “Be a better person, I guess. Spend more time with my parents. Be nicer to my neighbors. Learn to type faster.”

“Yes, I’d really appreciate that one. You take forever to reply to emails,” he joked.

She tilted her head at him, her glitter eyeshadow glimmering like tiny stars. “What’s your new year’s resolution, Charlie?”

Her eyeshadow was smokey grey, like shiny gunpowder. Like the dark steel of the gun he’d held in his trembling gun and pointed at the butcher of Luverne, such a long time ago.

“I want to be able to finish what I started” he said.

She blinked at him, and her joking demeanor faded at the sudden seriousness of his voice. They held each other’s gaze for a moment. There was something in the air. And then, a loud chanting started sounding in the room and he realized that the countdown to midnight had started.

“Um,” Felicity laughed awkwardly, shifting in her high heels.

“Yeah, I just remembered… I have this… thing. Happy new year. I’ll just…”

He turned around and darted out of the room before she had time to react. He was halfway down the stairs to the parking lot when the cheering started.

In January, he started making more excuses and making room for more empty days in his calendar to go to Fargo, although this time he had an actual goal in mind: follow those two guys around and see what they were up to. At least it was doable, unlike sitting in front of the headquarters waiting for Tripoli to come out the door. Charlie couldn’t believe the other two hadn’t realized yet that they had an intermittent stalker. Wow, maybe he was better at this than he gave himself credit for. Not much happened, nothing of interest at least. Maybe Tripoli had given up his gangster ways and turned the operation into a legit business, that’s why his henchmen didn’t seem to take part into any shady stuff, at least not the times when Charlie was around. He entertained the idea for a few seconds. Hanzee, going legal? No fucking way.

One day, Charlie was parked at the end of their street when the bearded guy started acting weird. It looked like he was washing his car, except that he didn’t have a bucket or a mop. No, it looked more like he was… prying it. Charlie watched him in confusion, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. And then he realized what the other man was looking for. _There’s an idea_.

The next day, Charlie paid his favorite cousin a visit. “Hey, Karen. Is Joel around? I need to ask him something about work.”

“Yeah, he’s in his study.”

Joel nodded his head in greeting at him when he entered. The computer screen in front of him was covered in lines of code that Charlie didn’t understand. He took a seat on a vacant chair, not too close so he didn’t disturb the programmer. Joel had been wary of Charlie when they’d first met, the words ‘ex convict’ probably were nightmare inducing to the modest computer engineer whose only interaction with law enforcement in his life had been parking tickets. But Joel had warmed up to him eventually.

“Working on something?” Charlie asked.

“Just working on some error reports” Joel mumbled, typing fast.

“Are you too busy for some off the record tech assistance?”

And this was the part where having his personal go-to tech guy in the family came in handy. Joel stopped typing and twirled his office chair to look at him. “What kind of assistance?”

“Well, hypothetically speaking…”

“Uh-oh. Nothing good ever comes out from those words.”

“Just let me explain. Look, there’s been a lot of cars stolen in Rochester lately, and the police aren’t doing a great job at recovering them.”

“They usually don’t. Those car thieves know what they’re doing man, they have a whole network where they dismantle the vehicles and sell them in pieces and stuff. They’re like a whole mafia. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. So, a friend told me that if I put a tracker in my car it could be a lifesaver if it gets stolen. I mean, it’s not illegal if I put a tracker in my own car, is it?”

“I think so…” Joel said, frowning.

“Right? So, how do those things work, exactly?”

“Well, it’s pretty simple. You have a tracking device that you attach to your car, usually in the undercarriage. It emits a signal, and you monitor it from a computer, I guess in this case your laptop. You have a laptop, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “But I thought the thieves might already know this trick, so if I were them…”

“Wow, really getting into the criminal mindset now, aren’t we?”

“…if I _were_ them, the first thing I’d check under the car to get rid of any tracking devices.”

Joel bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. “I supposed you could try attaching it to a place that wasn’t as obvious, although the undercarriage is the best spot to get the most optimal signal. You could also put it inside the wheel well, behind the bumpers… But I guess they’d think of those places, too.”

“Maybe I could put it inside one of the tail lights? Is that possible?”

“In theory, yes. Some of those devices are really tiny. It’d be a pain in the ass to install it, though.”

“Could you get me one of those really quickly?” Charlie asked.

“Sure. You got it. Give me a day or two.”

“You’re amazing, Joel Sharpe.”

“Why of course, ‘Amazing’ is my middle name.” Joel said with a cheeky grin. “Well, it’s actually Edward, but let’s ignore that.”

A couple of days later, Charlie received a package through certified mail at work. The device inside was a small square box with a few cables hanging off it. It came with an instruction manual. Charlie told his secretary that he was taking an early leave that day, and he hopped on his car.

It was very late at night when he rolled into Fargo, but that was exactly what he wanted. The street was dead quiet. Charlie stayed in the car for about five minutes until he made up his mind. He’d already come all the way here, if he didn’t do this now, he never would.

Using the cover of darkness to conceal his presence, he approached the henchmen’s car very quietly and knelt down next to the back end of it. He set down his bag of tools slowly, listened for a few seconds, and set himself to work. Removing the cover and lamp basically one-handed and while trying to not make a sound was a long and tiring process. His nerves were on edge and he was ready to bolt out of there at the tiniest noise. _Shit, shit, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this, shit, this is a bad idea, I’m so going to get shot_. By some miracle or deity watching over him, he was able to remove the lamp, install the tracking device, and put the whole thing back into place without alerting the whole neighborhood of his presence. He dared turning his flashlight on for a second to examine his handiwork. Nothing looked out of place. The owners shouldn’t suspect anything. Feeling satisfied, Charlie picked up his gear and started walking in the direction of his own car.

Halfway down the street, he dropped one of the tools. The noise woke up a dog in one of the nearby buildings, and the barking that resulted was like a fire alarm. Charlie ran to his car and threw himself under the driver’s seat, expecting a rain of bullets to start coming in his direction at any second. He drove off no doubt breaking every speeding limit, and he spent the rest of the night looking through the rearview mirror.

The sun was rising by the time he got back to Rochester. He didn’t even bother going to his apartment, he pulled up straight at work. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before and he hadn’t even showered. Felicity was already at her desk, reading something on her computer. She looked up when she heard him enter and the pencil she was nibbling on fell off her mouth.

“Felicity, please cancel all my appointments today” Charlie said, dragging himself to the door. “I have a lot of paperwork to do. So please… I need… peace and quiet.”

“Uh, sure…”

Charlie locked himself in his office, pulled down the blinds, laid down on the leather couch in the corner, and proceeded to take a six-hour long nap.

The tracker worked, that was a relief. The problem was, it wasn’t very useful to know where the two alleged Fargo gangsters were if Charlie couldn’t see what they were doing because he was stuck in Rochester. From what he saw in his computer screen the next few days, they didn’t seem to leave Fargo often, and when they did, it was always to different places, no visible pattern there. One night they drove to somewhere in the middle of Steele County. The map didn’t show any towns in the area. Cozied up in his apartment, Charlie stared at the bright red dot in the screen of his laptop, his mug of tea going cold on the coffee table. They were literally in the middle of nowhere, at least according to the data his mapping system was receiving. The dot stayed there for about an hour, mocking him with its monotonous blinking, and then it started moving back the way it’d came. They were going back to Fargo, after doing God knows what in the backwoods. Charlie decided to call it a night.

The next day it was Audrey’s fifth birthday, so of course Charlie turned up at the Sharpes’ doorstep with a doll wrapped in green and purple paper. A waft of patchouli scent invaded his nostrils when he crossed the foyer. Well well, it looked like Halley’s Comet was shining in the sky tonight.

“Hello, Laura” he said as he entered the living room. “Long time no see.”

“Oh hi, Charlie!” she lifted her gaze from the assortment of colored cardboard and colorful markers all over the table where she was sitting at and gave him a beaming smile. On each side of her, her two nephews were reveling in her little arts & crafts lesson. Patrick was cutting a garland of stars, while Audrey was mostly stamping the glittery glue over every single surface she could reach. But she had managed to draw some recognizable shapes with it, which was amazing given her yet undeveloped fine motor skills.

The children looked up at Charlie and bolted out of the table to run at him. “Easy there kids,” Charlie laughed, trying not to fall over under the weight of two hyperactive little creatures assaulting him. “Wow, you’re getting heavy, Audrey.”

“We’re making cutouts with Laura!” the little girl screamed with excitement.

“Well, why don’t you show me, lil’ miss?”

Karen had baked a cake with pink and white frosting. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of surprised yelping when it came time to open the presents, and for a moment there, Charlie could forget about everything. He forgot about the thoughts and the fears plaguing his head, he forgot about the million plans stewing in his head, and he just took in the moment right there, just a man with his family. Nothing could ruin this for him.

Joel picked up a sleepy Audrey from her seat at the table and carried the girl in his arms gently. “Okay, birthday girl, time for bed. And the same goes to you, young man.”

“But dad…” Patrick protested.

“You heard me.”

The boy groaned and gave Charlie and Laura quick hug each before trudging up the stairs after his father and sister. Laura took one last sip from her drink and excused herself to the bathroom. Charlie and Karen were left alone in the kitchen, the clock on the wall tickling loudly in the abrupt silence.

“Nice party” Charlie said. “Who taught you to bake like that?”

“Cooking shows” she answered.

“I thought you’d say your mother.”

“Hell no. My mother was a lot of things, but a model housekeeper, she was not.”

“Well, I thought…”

“It was usually me who took care of feeding my sisters, you see.” She said, stirring her cup of coffee. “Even before… Dad and Simone were not around a lot. Somebody had to.”

Charlie looked at her for a moment. This was always a touchy subject, but since Karen was the one who’d brought it up, he took the risk. “Simone was your older sister. She should’ve involved herself more with the three of you.”

Karen shrugged. “She just wanted to get away, and I can’t say I blamed her. Simone was the rebellious one. I was the responsible one. That’s just the way things were.”

Charlie pushed a piece of cake around his plate. “It’s a strange kind of symmetry, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“You know our fathers used to have an older brother that died, right?”

“Yes, Elron. My dad told me about him. He died in Korea, didn’t he? Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been thinking… I mean, you’re the second daughter of the second son. It’s kind of poetic.”

“Charlie, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Think about it. Your dad used to be the middle sibling, but then his older brother died and he became the eldest. And then the exact same thing happened to you with Simone. It’s just… You know how they say that history always repeats itself? Maybe we’re cursed, Karen. Maybe our whole family’s cursed.”

She shook her head, bringing her hands up to rub at her temples. “I never thought about it that way. I just kind of… accepted it. I assumed that every family went through so much pain and strife at least once. I simply thought what happened to us was normal.”

“Our family wasn't normal. Nothing about our childhood was normal.”

“I know that now! I didn’t know it when I was a kid!” He opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him. “I kind of hated my father, although not as much as I guess Simone did. But I kind of hated Simone, too. They both loved fighting way too much. Sometimes I wished Simone would just _shut up_ and stop provoking him so we could have five minutes of peace. And then they were both _gone_!”

Charlie gaped at his cousin, speechless.

“Survivor’s guilt can be a real bitch” he said softly.

“Erika has been giving you lectures, hasn’t she?” Karen whimpered and brought a hand to her chest. Her eyes were shiny. “It’s just like you say. Overnight, I stopped being the middle sister and became the older one. My mother was a mess, so it was up to me to look after the twins. I-I prayed a lot those days, you know. But I didn't pray for the souls of my dead family. Not for my mother's health, or even for my little sisters' and my own safety. No, I prayed for the death of those men. For anyone that had been responsible.”

Silent tears were streaming down her face now, and Charlie felt like a piece of shit. He reached out to her gently. “Karen…”

She shrugged his hand off. “No, let me finish.” She took a deep breath, slowly regaining her composure. “Do you know the amount of hatred that a fourteen year old girl can keep deep inside? I would lie awake in my bed, and I would pray in the dark that something bad happened to our enemies.” She chuckled, but it sounded more like a sob. “I mean, the brunt of my dark thoughts was directed to Hanzee. The other men, well, I didn't even know their names or what they looked like. I just knew that they hated us enough to erase our family name from existence. But Hanzee, I knew him. He betrayed us. At night I could hear my mother crying in the other room, and I would whisper, 'please, God, _please_ , bring me justice and make something terrible happen to Hanzee. Put him in the path of a police officer that shoots him dead. Let him get hit by a speeding car. Strike him with a lightning. Anything.' I would look through the newspapers practically every day, hoping that I would see a headline announcing Hanzee Dent's grisly death.”

“But it never happened” he said.

“No.” She said, brushing the tears from her eyes. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “And eventually, I learned to let go and move on. That’s the only thing you can do.”

“So you never entertained the idea of revenge?”

Karen looked at him and laughed. “Revenge? What would I do if I bumped into him in the street, yell at him? Chase him with my can of pepper spray? If he’s still alive, he must be an old fart by now anyway.”

“Probably” he grumbled.

“It’s one thing to fantasize about great epic scenes of retribution when you’re an angsty teenager. But you have to grow up and let go at some point, Charlie.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry I brought this up.”

“It’s okay. I needed to let it out. I’ve been keeping it all inside for too long.”

Charlie pulled his chair closer to her and slowly put his hand of top of hers.

“Audrey looks a lot like Simone,” Charlie said after a while.

“Yes,” Karen said. “She does.”

She had calmed herself down when Joel came back, which was good, because Charlie didn’t want to see his reaction if he saw that her cousin had made his wife cry. Charlie had heard that nerd rage was a truly terrifying thing to see. When he was putting on his coat to leave, a voice behind his back almost gave him a heart attack.

“You’re scheming.”

He flinched, and whipped around with his arm stuck in the sleeve of his bright blue coat. “What the hell, Laura?”

She smirked. “I’ve been watching you. You have that look on your face. You’re plotting something.”

He didn’t say anything. Laura came up to him and touched his forehead, like a mother fussing over her ill child.

“Let me know if something’s troubling you,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“I think Erika is the most qualified for that, actually.”

Laura chuckled and waltzed away, her long skirt whirling around her feet, and she left a trail of aroma in her wake.

Maybe Karen was right. Maybe he should just forget about the whole thing and move on with his life. Each one of them coped with grief in their own way. Karen had moved forward and built a home with the love of her life. Erika had become a psychologist in an attempt to understand the darkest side of human behaviour. She had hoped that through an intimate knowledge of the psyche she’d rationalize the violent ways of her family and of those who had annihilated them. Maybe if she saw the whole thing like a case study she’d be able to distance herself from it. That way she wouldn’t make the same mistakes. Laura was a nomad, a wandering soul. She never let herself get tied down to anywhere because if she stayed in the same place for too long, she began to remember. Maybe she’d spent her whole life running away from memories. Charlie suspected that he had been running too, except that only in the metaphysical sense. He thought he’d left the past behind and moved on, but he’d only buried it inside him. It had never gone far.

 

A few days later, he was awaken in the middle of the night by an ominous phone call. His hand fumbled on the bedside table, struggling to find the telephone. His sleepy brain was already bracing himself for every possible bad scenario, and he wasn’t very far from it. It was just not from the cousin he’d expected.

“Oh, Charlie, thank god you answered. Did I wake you?”

“…Laura?” He twisted around to look at the hour on his alarm clock. “Laura, it’s not even five in the morning.”

“Oh, Charlie…” she sounded like she’d just been crying, and he began to panic. He reached out and turned the light one. “It’s horrible…”

“Laura,” he said with a calm but commanding voice, “take a deep breath. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He heard a wheezing sound on the other side. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve spent the whole night tossing and turning. I keep having these nightmares…”

Charlie sighed and rubbed his eyes sluggishly. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I just felt like I needed to call you. Like I _had_ to wake you up right now. Charlie, something inside me tells me that today’s a very important day.”

He craned his neck to the bedside table. His digital alarm clock had a calendar on the corner of the screen. “Yes, today’s Valentine’s day… wait, is this your way of telling me that you want me to buy you flowers?”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“Okay, sorry.”

“It’s just… maybe there’s something _very_ important that you’re supposed to do today. Like, I don’t know… Have you checked your mail? Your missed calls? It’s like, like there’s someone waiting for you and you don’t know it. I felt like I had to tell you.”

Charlie didn’t know what to say. The minute marker on the alarm clock shifted forward, and although it was a silent device, Charlie heard an imaginary clack-clack-clack in his head.

“Alright, thanks for waking me. I’ll keep it in mind. Will you be alright?”

“Mm-hm. I’m fine” she said with a husky voice. “Charlie, please… be careful. I have a bad feeling.”

“It’s okay, Laura. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

The call ended with the flat tone of the dial. Charlie couldn’t sleep now, so he might as well start the day now. He took a shower and turned on the radio while he shaved. He imagined that the office would be completely empty if he rolled in this early. Maybe he could drop by the bakery on his way there and buy some Danish pastries for Felicity. He’d given her a lot of headaches lately, with his unexplained absences on the weekends and his constantly distraught mood. She’d had to cover up for him once or twice.

He caught a glimpse of his laptop on the edge of the coffee table and Laura’s words bugged him. Mails, missed calls… this was probably not what she’d had in mind, but…

He turned on the laptop and looked up the state of the tracking device, and his heart made a leap in his chest when he saw the red dot in the middle of Minnesota. They had never been this close.

He grabbed the laptop, his gun, and his keys and bolted through the door, already thinking of whatever shitty excuse he was going to give his secretary this time.

He threw the powered on laptop on the passenger seat and got on the road. The dot in the screen was moving around a lot. It took him over an hour to reach the area where the two henchmen were supposed to be. They were just a few miles away. He felt like he was in one of those old 8-bit computer games from the 80s that Joel was so fond of, _Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?_ The closer he got, the more he felt like he was crossing into another dimension. This wasn’t just an idle revenge fantasy or a pastime anymore, this was real and scary.

He gave a sideways glance to the laptop, and he realized too late that the batteries were running low and he’d forgotten to grab the charger.

“Oh no no no. Come on, don’t die on me now!” Charlie shouted, stopping the car in the middle of nowhere. He brought the laptop close to his face, his hands shaking. The red dot was close, too close. And then, a warning message blinked on the desktop, and the screen went black. Charlie stared at it for a moment, and shook the device to no avail. “No, no, no! Shit!”

Sighing, he tossed his dead laptop on the backseat and rubbed his temples. He stepped out of the car and leaned on the hood, his head hunched down. The sun was barely starting to rise, just a tenous sliver of light beyond the dark outline of trees, and Charlie could feel the cold in his bones.

And then he heard a gunshot break through the night.

Charlie flinched and almost fell on his ass. A flock of birds rose up from the treeline and flapped their wings away, spooked by the noise. Charlie ducked, using the car as cover, trying to figure out where the gunshot had come from, but it could have been anywhere. It couldn’t be too far away. Maybe a mile or two. He waited, but there were no more shots. Cursing, he hopped inside the car and simply followed wherever that road might take him.

“What the hell is going on,” he mumbled in the empty car. He drove for a while without seeing anything. The bad feeling that Laura had warned him about was now materializing, like a shadow looming closer and closer every time he looked behind him.

He arrived at an intersection, and as he came closer he began to glimpse a dark figure standing by the curb. For a second, he thought it was a scarecrow. Until he got close enough to see that it was actually a girl.

He slammed on the brakes so hard that the tires left an imprint on the asphalt. “What the fuck.”

 

The girl was inconsolable, but he’d managed to calm her down enough to drive her to the nearest hospital he knew in the area (his company had sold them prosthetics before, so Charlie knew the Dean personally). The next few hours were a frenetic blur and Charlie spent most of it answering a million questions to everyone: to doctors, paramedics, police officers, administrators. Charlie saw out of the corner of his eye how they rushed the girl away behind a curtain as a deputy took his statement. Then the deputy led him to the waiting room where he told his witness to stay there and then seemingly forgot about him. Charlie ogled the clock on the wall and felt a pang of guilt when he saw how late it was. He had eleven missed calls from his secretary. People at work must be going up the walls, wondering where their CEO was. He’d told the police that he’d been driving up north to meet with a supplier when he’d stumbled upon Joanna Caplan. Dreading this conversation, he pulled out his cell phone and called his office.

Felicity sounded out of breath when she answered. “Charlie, where the hell are you?! I’ve tried calling you a million times! Were you in a car crash? Oh my God, that’s it, you were in a car crash and now–”

“No, Felicity, I’m fine. I was not in a car crash” _well, not exactly_. “Look… I’m in Lakeville, and I don’t think I’ll be able to come back for at least a few hours. You should cancel all my appointments today. And maybe the ones for tomorrow, too.”

“What…? What are you doing in Lakeville?”

“I was on my way to meet with a supplier and… something came up. Long story. I’ll explain when I come back.”

“You don’t have any meetings out of town in your schedule today, Charlie.”

“Yeah, it was, uh… It was kind of a spur of the moment thing. I suspect the folks from Apple Valley are scamming us with a subpar product, so I thought I’d pay them a surprise visit and see their facilities with my own eyes. I was going to call you and tell you about it, but I got caught up in all this… mess.”

That was basically the same he’d told the police when they had questioned him. He didn’t know what was happening yet, but he knew that he had to cover his tracks. And when had it become so easy for him to lie like that? It was like the words rolled off his tongue on their own. Should he be worried about it?

“Charlie. Be honest with me. Are you in trouble?”

The deputy was at the end of the hallway, writing down the statement from one of the nurses. He glanced in Charlie’s direction for a moment before turning his attention back to the nurse.

“No. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry. I promise I’ll explain everything when I get back. Take care.”

Later, a man who claimed to be the girl’s father barged into the hospital. Charlie watched from his seat how two officers held him back as he broke down in hysterics. Then they steered him to one of the rooms, away from prying eyes.

Charlie nursed his third cup of crappy vending machine coffee and plopped himself down on one of the plastic chairs. He could hear the officers comparing their notes with each other in hushed tones.

“…says she heard at least three different voices, but she’s not sure how many people were in there…”

“…sent the coat she was wearing to the lab. Not holding out much hope, though…”

“…Nothing in this case makes any damn sense…”

Charlie took one sip of his coffee, grimaced, and threw the whole thing in the trash can to his right. He wondered how bad it would be if he just got up and went home. The deputies seemed to have forgotten about him entirely, and he didn’t want to risk pissing them off by asking them now. He closed his eyes and tried to will his headache away. And then, somebody stepped on his foot painfully. He looked up, a protest halfway down his throat, and froze.

The very two fellas he’d been following around the whole day had just passed right in front of him. And they hadn’t even reacted to him.

For a minute, Charlie just stayed there stupefied, too shocked to move. He got up slowly and started inching in their direction. They were standing around the corner, seemingly doing nothing. Charlie tried to get closer to get a better look at them, but then the tall one turned around so Charlie quickly spun around to face the wall and pretended to read an info poster on MRSA awareness. He held his breath when he felt them pass by behind his back. He counted to ten very slowly, and started following them.

From his car, Charlie saw them call somebody from a payphone, then drive around town to what appeared to be a funeral home. It was a secluded place with no visible security cameras, so big red flag right there. Charlie pulled up to the curb on the side road about a hundred feet away and waited. He didn’t think getting out of the car was a good idea, so he just watched from a distance. Another car parked next to the building and the distressed man from the hospital stepped out. The other two came up to him from behind and the shorter one pulled put a gun. Charlie quickly reached for his pistol in the hidden compartment of the glove box, ready to bolt out of the car and intervene, but then the odd duo simply walked away, leaving the trembling man standing in the parking lot with his hands up. Charlie gritted his teeth and set off after them. “Alright, fellas, let’s see this through to the end.”

They drove for a while until the sun began to set. His two persons of interest arrived to a small town, got off the car, and set out in different directions. Charlie wasn’t sure which one he should follow. But their car was still there, so they’d have to get back to it eventually, so Charlie decided to stay where he was and wait. On the rearview mirror, he saw a Range Rover pulling up to the sidewalk behind him and a man get out, but he didn’t think much of it. The bearded guy came back. Charlie had the feeling that he wouldn’t be going anywhere far without his partner, so he took out his phone to check if he had any more missed calls, and in that moment he heard a loud noise. He looked up in time to see the man from the Range Rover drag the bearded guy, who looked to be unconscious, to the back of his 4x4 and toss him in the trunk before driving away.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck” Charlie barely had time to rev up the engine and follow the Range Rover before it dashed away.

He could feel beads of cold sweat on his forehead as he followed the other car. It was getting dark, and he didn’t know how long it would take the abductor to notice that he was being followed. Charlie put a good distance between the two vehicles, but fortunately for him those desolate country roads only went in one direction.

He arrived at a gate with a _NO TRESPASSING_ sign. It was half open, like they had gone in very fast and forgot to close it properly behind them. The beams of his headlights showed fresh prints on the snow along the path. Charlie got off his car, gun in hand, and trespassed.

The path led him to an abandoned barn. The Range Rover and another car he didn’t recognize were parked aside. Charlie heard voices among the trees behind the barn and he scooted closer, not making any noise. His heart was hammering in his chest. Concealed by the shadows, he treaded slowly until he saw light in a small clearing and he understood what he was witnessing.

And suddenly, Charlie was fourteen years old again, and he was peeking through the ajar door in the barn of the Gerhardt state. His uncle Dodd was inside with a few of his men. Charlie didn’t quite understand what was happening, but there was a figure on the floor that was not moving, and his uncle had a knife in his hand that was dripping blood. And then his father was there, and he looked furious, and he was yanking Charlie away from the barn and telling him to go to his room and not come down until dinner.

Charlie heard enough of the conversation in that clearing to piece together what was going on. He already had a vague idea of what had happened since he’d picked up a blindfolded girl in the middle of the road that morning, but the things those henchmen said confirmed it. There was a lot of screaming, but it didn’t matter, he’d heard enough.

He had to make a decision. To intervene, or to walk away.

He raised his gun and pointed. He was already in too deep. He could barely see his own hand in the dark, much less the outline of the pistol. Putting into practice all the self-learned lessons in breath control and marksmanship he’d been taking for the last two months, Charlie exhaled, paused, and pulled the trigger.

There was a brief moment of _holy shit did I just do that?_ Before the other two thugs started firing back at him as expected. And naturally, Charlie had to finish what he’d started.

Hardly the Way of the Samurai, but he hoped it would all be alright in the end.


	10. Acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lately I haven’t been feeling like myself.

Wrench was the first to move. While Numbers and the other guy were occupied having a staring contest, Wrench ducked down and quickly started searching Dunbar. The man’s hand still held the large knife in a dead grip, a clear exit wound on the back of his head. He didn’t have anything that was of any interest to Wrench except a Beretta holstered on his belt and a couple of extra clips and the remote key to a Range Rover in his pocket. Wrench took all of them and moved on to the other two dead bodies on the snow.

 _‘What are you doing?’_ Numbers asked him. The other guy was just standing there, watching him with that shocked look that wasn’t completely gone yet.

 _‘We don’t have time to clean this up. Let’s take anything useful we can find and fuck off.’_ Wrench said.

Numbers looked down at the bodies, and then his eyes flicked to somewhere far off beyond the trees. _‘We could try burying them…’_ he signed with half-hearted gestures, like he knew it was pointless before suggesting it.

_‘Fuck it. Fargo will get here before the police. Let them deal with this mess.’_

_‘Fine.’_ Numbers moved to his side and started searching Bell, while Wrench did the same with Rafferty. They made a grotesque picture, like two beggars rummaging through the bodies of the fallen soldiers in the trenches to scavenge what they could before running off into the night. The guy that had saved them was still there, looking uncertain like he wanted to ask them to stop but couldn’t bring himself to.

 _‘Ask him if he’s just going to stand there or if he’s going to be useful’_ Wrench said. Rafferty had a Ruger LCP inside his jacket. He smiled a little, knowing exactly what his partner would say at that weapon choice. ‘A tiny gun for his tiny hands. Piece of crap doesn’t even have any stopping power.’ Numbers and the other guy were saying something to each other. Wrench found a pack of chewing gum and a box of Azythromycin pills in Rafferty’s pocket. He looked inside his wallet. Jackass looked so smug in the photo of his (probably fake) driving license, like he was posing for his high school yearbook.

Numbers rolled Bell around like a sack of potatoes and started patting him up. He pointed a finger at the stranger unashamedly. _‘He says he saw a barn and two cars over there. That’s probably where our things are.’_ He dug through Bell’s pockets and came away with a small key ring.

 _‘Only take cash. No credit cards’_ Wrench reminded him.

“I know, damn it, I know.”

Wrench took Rafferty’s meds and money and left everything else. It never hurt to have some spare antibiotics at hand. He pulled Numbers to his feet and together they began walking away from the scene. Wrench made eye contact with the stranger and jerked his head to the side in a hurrying motion, and the guy followed after them.

Numbers darted off to the cars parked by the muddy path and looked in the trunk of Bell’s Taurus for a few seconds. Wrench barely had time to catch his jacket in the air when it came flying at him. His shoulders ached when he stretched his arms to put it on. Numbers went back to his side and passed him his gun and holster. Then he turned to the other guy and the both of them seemed to argue about something for a few seconds. The pale moonlight shone down on them, barely enough for Wrench to tell their faces apart.

 _‘He offered to give us a ride and I said no thanks’_ Numbers said. Wrench had some trouble making out some of the signs with so little light, but he got the gist of it. _‘Let’s just take Bell’s car and go.’_

_‘If we take one of their cars, Fargo will know what to look for. It’s too risky.’_

_‘So we just walk in the cold until we find another town? I don’t even know where we are!’_

_‘I guess we’ll have to accept his offer’_ Wrench said.

His partner’s nostrils flared. _‘We don’t know anything about this guy. No fucking way I’m getting inside his car.’_

 _‘I’ll keep my eyes on him’_ Wrench signed shamelessly, like the guy in question wasn’t right there next to them. _‘If he tries anything funny, we shoot him.’_

He flicked his eyes to the stranger. The third man seemed to have recoiled back on himself and he was watching their argument with a thoughtful, almost withdrawn, look. He noticed Wrench staring at him and his eyes widened just a little before regaining his composure. The man made a sweeping motion with his hand and turned around, and they walked off after him.

 

They drove for about twenty minutes, putting a good distance between themselves and the scene of the crime. Nobody spoke a word, either with their mouths or with their hands. Saying it was tense would be an understatement. Wrench and Numbers were both sitting very upright on each side of the backseat, looking like two springs ready to snap and jolt at the tiniest provocation. Without taking his eyes from the back of Gerhardt’s head, Numbers ran his arm across the vinyl and took hold of his partner’s hand. He felt Wrench giving him a sideways glance and then those fingers squeezed back. Gerhardt glanced at them through the rearview mirror every now and then, but mostly he kept his full attention on the road. At one point he actually asked them their names and when Numbers answered him, the guy had to turn around for a second and give him that ‘what the fuck kind of name is that?’ look that Numbers was so familiar with. For a moment there it looked like Gerhardt was going to say something else, but then he didn’t.

The car pulled up in front of a brightly lit diner at the entrance of a town, an oasis of neon light in the long strip of darkness that was the road. Wrench opened his eyes, blinking in annoyance at the sudden brightness, and pulled away from Numbers’ touch. It was close to one in the morning, but the sign on the door told them that the place was open twenty-four hours a day. Their driver turned around in his seat and looked at them warily for a moment before speaking.

“This seems like a good place to talk.”

Numbers glanced out the window and scoffed. “Sure, let’s walk out in the open into a place we don’t know. Why don’t we paint a bullseye on our backs while we’re at it?”

“I doubt your boss has men stationed in every single bumfuck town in a twenty mile radius. You’d rather we have this conversation in the car?”

“No.”

“Come on, I’m buying.”

Gerhardt pushed aside his seatbelt and exited the car before waiting for them to reply. Numbers exchanged a look with his partner, who just shrugged, and they followed after Gerhardt. The other man glanced at them over his shoulder when he remotely locked the car, as if to make sure that they were still there, but he still kept a good distance between them. The two hitmen followed him inside the restaurant and sat down across from him in one of the booths in the back. The only other customer was a truck driver eating waffles quietly by the window, while a single waitress was mopping the floor. Gerhardt asked them what they wanted, and when they just shrugged without answering, he ordered a combo meal for each of them and a cup of coffee for himself. Numbers rolled his eyes but didn’t object. All that generosity was suspicious as fuck, but he wasn’t about to complain about free food in that moment. They stared at each other across the table, and Numbers wondered idly if Wrench could feel the tension in the air too or if it didn’t make a difference to him.

Eventually, their new acquaintance sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“So…” Gerhardt said.

“So…” Numbers said.

Charlie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He pursed his lips for a moment, mulling his words.

“So… I’m guessing you two must be in Fargo’s shit list right now,” Charlie said carefully. “Given the way I found you.”

Numbers looked at Wrench for a moment. And then he did something that he didn’t do often because it required too many mental gymnastics: he started speaking and signing at the same time. “You seem to know an awful lot about Fargo.”

The other man raised his eyebrows. He glanced at Wrench warily before turning his attention back to Numbers. “Um, how are going to…?”

“He can read lips, more or less,” Numbers said with impatience. “Just don’t be a dick about it.”

Charlie sighed. “Okay.”

Numbers narrowed his eyes at him. “Just who the hell are you?”

“I already told you my name.”

“No, I mean, what were you doing in the woods, coming to our rescue?”

Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but then the waitress came back with their orders and their conversation stopped for a moment. Charlie thanked her with a smile and waited until she was way out of reach before talking.

“I used to live in Fargo many years ago,” he said, stirring his coffee. “I know how stuff works over there.”

“That’s awesome. Are you going to answer my question at some point?”

The other man took a sip of his coffee. “Your food’s getting cold.”

Beside him, Wrench was already going to town on his meal without a single care for manners. Numbers looked down at his own plate and in that moment he felt his stomach rumble traitorously. Reluctantly, he picked up a fork and started eating.

“How long have you two been working for Mr. Tripoli?” Gerhardt asked them.

“Long enough,” Numbers grumbled around a mouthful of fries.

“Then you must know that he didn’t always control the area. There were others before him. What do you know about that?”

Numbers bit his lip, regarding at the man before him with suspicion. Gerhardt, Gerhardt, Gerhardt… Now that he thought about it, he kind of recognized that family name. “We’ve heard… stories. Urban legends. We knew there was like, a gang war for the territory before Tripoli got there.” He explained, his tired hands making sluggish signs to accompany his words. He spoke slowly and used simple words because all that effort was too taxing on his brain at that point. “It all happened when we were kids. We didn’t really ask. And people didn’t talk about it, it’s like… well, it’s not like it was taboo or anything, but…”

“But it’s like the name ‘Gerhardt’ is still cursed in that town.” Charlie finished.

Numbers blinked at him. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He turned to Wrench to ask him how to say ‘C-U-R-S-E-D’ in sign language. His partner looked at him with confusion, thinking that his partner was asking him about curse words, so Numbers clarified by spelling out ‘D-A-M-N-E-D’, to which Wrench simply shrugged and used the sign for ‘bad luck’. Charlie watched that whole exchange with obvious interest, his eyes bouncing like a tennis ball from one to the other.

“So yes, you could say that my family used to own that town,” Charlie continued. “As pretentious as that sounds.”

“But they don’t anymore,” Numbers said.

“Obviously.”

“Because they’re dead.” Numbers said flatly. His partner gave him a dirty look for his lack of tact, and he even felt a little bit bad about it.

Charlie stared at him for a moment, and his hand went still on the coffee spoon. “Most of them, yes.”

“So what do you want? Revenge?”

Charlie brought the cup to his lips and took a long sip. “Like most people…” he began to say around the rim of the cup, until he realized that it was covering his mouth and he put it down. “Sorry. Like most people in this world, I want many things. I guess most of all… I want answers.”

“Answers to what?”

Gerhardt pressed his mouth in a thin line, reluctant to elaborate on that point. He was only using his left hand, while the right one remained under the table. Numbers could kick himself for not noticing before, and blamed it on exhaustion.

“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here.” Charlie said. “Why don’t we try to start over again?”

Numbers eyed Charlie’s concealed arm pointedly. “It’d help if you took your hand off your pocket.”

Charlie blinked, and he looked down, like he hadn’t even realized that he was doing it. He rolled his eyes. “Really? You think I’m going to start a shootout right here?”

“Wouldn’t shock me” Numbers deadpanned. “If you don’t mind.”

The other man sighed and relented. He shifted his right hand on the table, and Numbers immediately understood why he kept his hand firmly in his pocket. Charlie noticed their staring, and he raised the hand as much as he could. He curled and uncurled his stiff fingers like withered twigs, displaying the unnatural angles at which they bent.

“Cerebral palsy,” he explained. “When I was born, doctors didn’t expect me to live more than a few days.”

Numbers stared for a second longer before tearing his gaze away and shaking his head. “Whatever,” he said. “Get to the point. What do you want?”

“What do I…?” Charlie put the spoon down and frowned. “Do you always expect an ulterior motive?”

“You don’t?”

“Oh, for the love of…” He sagged down in his seat and sighed. “A simple ‘thank you for saving my life’ would suffice.”

Numbers scowled. Wrench brought a hand to his lips and signed _‘thank you’_. Charlie gave him a courtly nod in return.

“How did you find us?” Numbers asked. “And don’t say you were taking a nightly stroll through the woods and you happened to run into us by accident.”

Charlie looked down for a moment, and Numbers swore that he looked guilty. “I’ve been watching the syndicate for a while. I focused mainly on Tripoli in the beginning, but since I couldn’t get close to him directly, well…”

Numbers frowned, the gears in his head turning. He came to a sudden realization, and his mouth fell open with a gasp. He jammed an accusatory finger in Charlie’s direction. “You!”

His outburst didn’t make Charlie wince in the slightest, but the truck driver in the corner turned around to look in their direction, and the waitress stopped mopping the floor. Numbers lowered his voice. “You’ve been following us for _weeks_!” he hissed. He turned sideways and signed to his partner _‘I told you! I fucking knew it!’_

“For what it’s worth, I apologize for that” Charlie said.

Numbers pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and groaned. “Save it.”

Charlie nodded and went back to taking small sips of his coffee. Numbers glared for a moment, but the other man didn’t seem affected by it, so he gave up and resumed eating. Truth be told, there was something about this Gerhardt guy that made it hard to stay mad at him. Numbers gobbled up his omelette in quick bites, anxious to get out of there.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Numbers asked.

“I’m not hungry.”

Numbers watched the man across the table, taking in his posture, his demeanor.

“That was the first time you ever killed someone, wasn’t it?” he asked softly.

A crease of regret appeared in Charlie’s brow. He didn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m familiar with violence.” He said flatly. “My father tried to shield me away from it all, for a while at least. But growing up in that house, it was impossible to not be aware of what was going on.”

“I can imagine” Numbers said, and for once, there was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“How do you come to terms with something like that?” Charlie didn’t bother asking them if they had killed before. This was honest hour, apparently.

 “You do what you have to do, man.” He shrugged. “I mean, what do you want me to say?”

“Right. Forget it.”

Numbers felt a hand on his shoulder and he cocked his head to the side to see what Wrench was signing to him. “He says you did the right thing. Those guys were scum.”

Charlie’s frown deepened but he didn’t say anything.

“There’s still something I don’t understand.” Numbers pressed on. “What history do you have with our boss? I thought he only came into the picture after the Gerhardts were killed. Am I missing something?”

“You are. Did you know that Moses Tripoli isn’t his real name?”

“Do you think ‘Numbers’ is my real name, genius?”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “And did you know that he got plastic surgery to swap his face? And I mean _a lot_ of plastic surgery.”

Wrench and Numbers looked at each other, eyebrows raised. “Well, it does seem suspicious that in twenty years he’s hardly aged at all, but we thought he was just a vain fuck like the rest of them.” He narrowed his eyes at Charlie. “You mean that you knew him before that?”

“I grew up with him. He was my uncle Dodd’s most trusted enforcer.”

“But, of course he was.”

“His name was Hanzee. He was kind of a… an adoptive son, in a way. My grandfather brought him from a Native reservation when Hanzee was eight years old, back in… shit, I don’t even know. The 30’s? The 40’s?”

Numbers did some quick math in his head. “Wait… How old is the guy, exactly?”

Charlie looked at him and chuckled. “Older than you thought, that’s for sure.”

Conversation came to an awkward halt after that. The truck driver paid his tab and walked out, the door clinking shut behind him. The sleepy waitress scrubbed the counter, rocking lightly to the low dim of the radio on a shelf behind the cash register.

 _‘This guy doesn’t even know what he’s doing’_ Numbers said to his partner. _‘We should be back on the road by now. We’ve wasted too much time already.’_

 _‘He could have useful information’_ Wrench protested. _‘He knows stuff about the boss that nobody alive knows.’_

_‘I don’t care! I don’t care about Tripoli or his past or the syndicate anymore! I just want to be very far away from this goddamn place as soon as possible!’_

While they bickered, Charlie was looking at them with clear confusion on his face. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he probably wasn’t dumb enough to not know when they were talking shit about him right in front of him.

“Look…” Charlie said eventually. “If you have a problem with me or anything, you can just say so. I’m an adult, I can take it.”

“Hold on a second,” Numbers said impatiently. “We’re having a conversation here.”

Charlie huffed and took a swig off his cup.

Wrench pulled at his partner’s arm to draw his attention back to him, and he looked at Numbers with stern eyes. _‘We would be in a shallow grave right now if it wasn’t for him. The least we can do is listen.’_

Numbers stopped. He felt a wave of the anguish he’d been suppressing that whole time making an angry comeback, tearing down the barriers that he’d put on his emotions to make it through this surreal meeting. The barriers that were currently barely keeping his sanity together with play-dough and duct tape. He swallowed it all down, but not before the embarrassing sound of a half choked sob escaped his lips. He covered his face with his hands, he really didn’t need to see Charlie’s reaction to his distress on top of it.

“It never fucking ends” he muttered.

“What?” Charlie asked.

Numbers shook his head, feeling a sting in his eyes, which only made him angrier. “I can’t– I can’t deal with this right now.”

He felt Wrench squeezing his knee under the table.

“It’s been a long night” Charlie said. “I think we should get some sleep. We’ll have a clear head after some rest, we can talk about this in the morning.”

Numbers shifted against Wrench inconspicuously until their legs were touching. Sighing, he took his hands away from his face to continue translating to ASL. “Fargo will be on our trail soon. We just killed three of their operatives. We’ll be their first priority.”

“What’s their average response time?” Charlie asked.

“They probably expected Dunbar to report back to them in the morning. When none of them does, they will smell a rat and send in the cavalry.”

“Do you think this town is safe?”

“For tonight? Yeah, I guess. I know most of the contacts the syndicate has scattered in a two hundred mile radius and I don’t remember any names from around here. But I wouldn’t risk it staying much longer than that.”

“Okay. Let’s call it a night.” Charlie raised his hand to catch the attention of the waitress.

 

Wrench took the key that Gerhardt offered to him. The motel was just what could be expected: dark, decrepit, and anonymous. But compared to sleeping in the car, it was practically a palace. Gerhardt bounced on his feet for a moment and gave them an awkward smile. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me,” he said, and he stood there for a moment longer before walking down the hallway to his own door. Numbers was leaning on the handrail with his back to them. When the other man was gone, he turned around and followed Wrench inside their room.

The room included a mini fridge in the corner, and Numbers went straight to it. Wrench thought that his partner was going to pour himself a shot of whatever hard liquor the motel had to offer, and Wrench wouldn’t hold it against him in that moment. Numbers however grabbed a bottle of carbonated water and grappled with it until he managed to get it open. He drank a third of its content in five seconds flat.

 _‘What?’_ Numbers asked with a scowl on his face.

Wrench said nothing. He turned around and went to the bathroom. The halogen light on top of the mirror flickered for a few seconds after he switched it on, and his reflection greeted him with the same menacing indifference with which he surveyed most of the world on a regular basis. He was behind closed doors, he could drop that pretense now. He took off his jacket and let it drop on the floor. His shoulders hunched down. He looked hopeless. Vulnerable. His hair was sweaty and there was a trail of dried blood coming down from his nose to his mouth. He washed his face with cold water, rubbing hard on the skin. And fuck, was that actual brain matter on his sweater?

He shed his clothes until he was in his underwear and undershirt. The inside of his jacket was also contaminated after coming in contact with his stained sweater. Maybe he shouldn’t have put it on right after being sprayed with a rain of Dunbar’s pulverized brains. But what was he going to do, freeze to death in the woods? He took both garments to the bathtub and scrubbed them hard with a piece of soap for several minutes until the water ran clear. The sweater was a lost cause, he realized after a while, but he thought the jacket could still be salvaged if he washed it with bleach when he had the chance. The room was actually surprisingly warm, so he hoped that it would be dry again come morning.

He walked out of the bathroom with his dripping clothes in hand. Numbers was sitting at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The still half-full plastic bottle lay discarded on the floor. Wrench threw the wet clothes on the back of a chair next to the radiator and ran to his partner’s aid. Kneeling down on the floor by the bed, Wrench took hold of both of the other man’s wrists and pried his hands away. Numbers didn’t even try to hide the tears. He just stared at Wrench like he didn’t know where he was or how he got there, his whole body convulsing. His mouth opened and closed like that of a dying fish.

 _‘I can’t breathe’_ Numbers signed with trembling hands.

Wrench put his hand on his partner’s chest to get a feel of his cardiac rhythm. The short, quick spasms of the diaphragm along the expression of fatality on his face were a telltale sign. Wrench knew a lot of practical things, he knew how to relocate a dislocated shoulder, how to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but he didn’t know how to stop a panic attack. With a steady grip, he hoisted Numbers up by his armpits and pulled him to his feet. He crossed the room towards the bathroom, keeping their chests closely pressed against each other. Numbers let Wrench manhandle him like that, his arms clutched tightly around himself.

Wrench kicked the bathroom door open and made Numbers sit on the toilet seat. He helped his shaking partner out of his clothes quickly, and Numbers didn’t try to resist, he just whimpered with his eyes tightly shut. Wrench undressed in five seconds flat and pushed Numbers into the shower with him.

The water was lukewarm and lacking in pressure. Wrench held Numbers under the spray and watched his tears get lost among the falling droplets. They embraced, naked, but oddly enough there was nothing sexual about it. Numbers was still shivering, holding onto him for dear life, but little by little his breathing went back to normal.

 _‘Sorry about freaking out like that’_ Numbers said later. They were sitting on the middle of the bed, wrapped in a pair of scratchy bathrobes that Wrench had found in the closet. _‘I don’t know what came over me.’_ Numbers looked embarrassed. His hair was messy, his eyes glossy. Wrench thought that he’d never loved him more than he did in that moment.

 _‘I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do.’_ Numbers confessed. He rarely admitted to his own vulnerabilities like that, so Wrench knew it was genuine.

He took one of Numbers’ ankles on his lap and rubbed circles on the skin. _‘We’re going to get through this.’_

That night Wrench slept with one eye open.

 

Come morning, Wrench found a piece of paper lying face down on the rug. It looked like it had been slipped under the door. He picked it up. _WENT TO BUY SOME SUPPLIES. I’LL BE BACK IN AN HOUR –C._

 _‘You know, I was thinking we could just hotwire the guy’s car and leave, but now I want to see how much free shit we can get before he gets sick of us’_ Numbers said, peering over his shoulder. Wrench frowned. _‘Just kidding.’_

 

Charlie sat alone in his car with his phone in his hand, his finger hovering over the call button. That time in the morning, Karen and Joel must be hurrying to get the children ready for school before leaving for work. Charlie could picture it perfectly, the noises of little rambunctious feet coming down the stairs, the bubbling of the coffee maker, Karen applying her mascara in front of the mirror as she yelled at Patrick to finish breakfast already or he’s going to lose the school bus again. It was funny, how this had become his default action whenever things got rough for him. Having a bad day? Getting anxious about the future? Feeling homesick? Just call Karen! She’ll make it better!

“Hello?”

“Hi, Joel, it’s Charlie. Is Karen around?”

“Heyy, Charlie! Man, I never got to ask you about those trackers I got you! They workin’ alright with your car?”

Joel sounded as laid-back as every day, and that made no sense to Charlie, because how could his figurative brother in law act so nonchalant after Charlie had killed three people in one night? It had to be showing in his voice, he was sure of that.

“Yeah, they’re… they’re fine. Listen, I really need to speak with Karen…”

“Sure, I’ll go get her.”

Joel’s voice faded out and the line went silent save for some vague background noises. Then he heard the rustle of someone breathing on the other side, but instead of Karen’s no-nonsense contralto, it was a childish voice that answered.

“Uncle Charlie! I got an A in Math!”

“That’s… that’s great, Patrick. Well done.”

“Are you coming for dinner this weekend?” The boy asked with a hopeful tone. What the hell was Karen doing?

“I don’t know, kiddo. We’ll see.”

“And my teacher got an ant farm for the class! We all thought it looked really cool at first, but you can’t really see much. The ants just sit there all day and do nothing. My friend Austin said we should try giving them sugar, but Ms. Collins said only she and the class delegate are allowed to feed them…”

The words brushed off around him, but Charlie could only hear buzzing noise. He pinched his eyes shut and suppressed a sob. _Don’t start crying. If you start crying, she’s going to notice and then she’ll pound you with a million questions._

“Patrick, stop pestering your uncle and go put your shoes on!” Karen’s voice suddenly invaded the line. She must have picked up the second receiver they had upstairs. “Hi, Charlie. Sorry, we’re all a bit stressed out today. What’s wrong?”

He moved the phone away from his face for a second to take a deep breath. “Nothing. Just felt like calling to say hi.”

“Yeah, you do that a lot.”

“What can I say, I like to live precariously through you guys. Patrick said something ‘bout an ant farm?”

“Oh, Jesus, yes. Now he’s saying he wants to be an entomologist, and when I asked him where he learned that word he said he’d looked it up on his dad’s Encyclopedia Britannica. Yesterday he asked me if he could grow silk worms in a box in his room and I was so grossed out by the idea but I didn’t want to demean his hobbies, so I told him that I don’t even know where you can find one of those in Minnesota.”

“That kid’s got initiative. And hey, you could make scarves with the extra silk.”

“As if. He’ll lose interest in it within a week, anyway.”

Charlie sighed. “By the way, I wanted to ask you about Laura…”

“Yeah? What’s up with Laura?”

 _What is up with Laura indeed_ , he thought. “I had an interesting conversation with her the other day, and… I just realized that I don’t even have her number. Where is she living these days?”

“She’s renting an apartment in Mankato. I’ll text you her number.”

“Thanks, that’d be great.”

He ended the call with the same feeling in his gut he used to have when he got into trouble in school and he didn’t tell his dad about it, only amplified tenfold. It was that heavy weight of guilt, mixed with a lingering dread, the feeling that things were going to blow up real bad at some point in the future.

_Keep it together, Charles. You’ve got things to do._

 

For a lack of anything better to do, Wrench kept watch of the street down below through the window while Numbers flicked through the TV channels, gun at hand. Without hair gel, Numbers had tried to style his hair with a plastic comb he’d found in the bathroom, but eventually he’d given up and now the cowlick at the base of his hairline made the black strands of hair curl around his temples. He looked like a beatnik. It reminded Wrench of when they were younger and still had the ability to feel wonder or shock at new things, and everything was scary but also a bit thrilling in a way. Back when they treated each job like a fun road trip, like they were college kids on a cross-country adventure, before the years left them jaded and desensitized.

 _‘He’s back’_ Wrench said when he saw Gerhardt’s car pulling up in the parking lot.

Numbers sauntered over to the door and opened it to reveal Charlie standing there carrying a bunch of bags. The other man smiled timidly, shaking the bags a little like they were Christmas presents, and he and Numbers said something to each other before Numbers turned around to face Wrench.

 _‘Our friendly stalker brought us food’_ he announced.

 _‘Let him in before someone sees him’_ Wrench said. Charlie watched them while they signed to each other with a very bad attempt at a poker face. And Wrench had to admit, the guy was kind of adorable when he looked confused.

The two hitmen took the bags from him and rummaged through their contents. Charlie walked in, closing the door behind him. Wrench tore open the plastic wrapping of a toothbrush, and was surprised to find some clothes in there as well. Numbers looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he saw a bundle of men’s underwear at the bottom of the bag.

“Are you my mother?” Numbers asked Charlie, using one hand to sign while he clutched the cheap cotton briefs in the other.

“Had the feeling you could use those,” Charlie answered with a shrug.

“Thanks, you thoughtful perv” Numbers said, grinning. He grabbed a v-neck sweater and an undershirt from the pile and then said something about not wanting to give the man a show before leaving for the bathroom to change.

Wrench, who was considerably less finicky about modesty than his partner, started undressing right there. Gerhardt made a funny face, turned around, and pretended to be very interested in the painting of a fruit basket that was hanging on the wall. Wrench changed into the clean clothes quickly and when he was done, he tapped Charlie’s shoulder to get his attention.

 _‘You’re not as harmless as you look.’_ He signed. _‘Your aim is too good. I bet people have always underestimated you.’_

Charlie’s eyes drifted to his hands instead of his face, as was typical of people who were unfamiliar with sign language. The look of concentration on his face was almost comical, like he thought he could just magically understand what the signs meant if only he looked long enough and hard enough.

Numbers came out of the bathroom. “What’s the plan now?”

_‘Tell him our car is still parked where we left it. We have to get it back before someone calls a tow truck.’_

_‘I don’t really want to show my face in that town now’_ Numbers said.

Wrench grinned. _‘Good thing we have our errand boy right here.’_

 

Charlie looked at both sides of the street furtively. People were going about their day and nobody was paying any attention to the man in the fancy-looking coat standing on the sidewalk. Sighing, he took a step forward and leaned on the door of the car. He uncapped the bottle of acetone in his hand and poured a little of the liquid over the lock. His new friends had dragged him to a supermarket and made him buy a bottle of solvent without telling him what they planned to do with it. They had waited until Charlie had generously footed the bill at the cashier and they were back in the car before explaining exactly what they needed him to do.

A thin puff of vapor emanated from the lock as the acetone dissolved the glue inside. Charlie heard a door behind him jingle open, and he stopped. He looked over his shoulder to see a young man coming out of the dentist’s practice, rubbing his swollen cheek with a pained grimace. The young man turned to the left and walked away without looking in Charlie’s direction. Charlie shook his head and continued with his work. He let the lock dry for a minute and tried the key. He sat behind the wheel for a moment before starting the car, feeling an odd tingling in his hands. He couldn’t suppress his curiosity and he snooped around a bit. The scrunched up bag of stale Doritos under the passenger seat was no surprise, but the dog-eared paperback edition of _Smiley’s People_ was. In the glove compartment he found a bottle of painkillers, a few maps, and a tube of KY jelly. And when he put all of those things together in context, sitting there in their car, his mind started to get a picture of what these guys’ life must be like, and he couldn’t help feeling something that was a bit like pity.

He drove back to the parking lot of a farm nursery on the edge of town where he’d left them.

“I’m surprised that you’re still here,” he said, handing Mr. Numbers his keys so they could swap vehicles.

“Why would I take your ugly car when I have this beauty right here.”

“Well, screw you too.” Charlie said with a cheeky smile. His eyes flicked to the deaf man. “I haven’t met many henchmen that read John Le Carré.”

Mr. Wrench gave Charlie an inquisitive look, and his partner frowned at him with annoyance. “Am I looking forward to a lot of hearing your opinion on things that are none of your business when nobody asked you?”

Charlie shrugged with candidness. Numbers groaned, and he stomped over to his car as if to get on it, but then he turned around and walked up to Charlie, raising a finger sternly.

“Okay, what are we doing here?” The hitman asked.

“What do you mean?” Charlie said.

“What is this?” Numbers insisted, waving a finger between them. “Some kind of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ type of deal?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“Look,” Numbers said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “it’s not that we don’t appreciate everything you’ve done so far. But yesterday the plan for us was to get on the road and get very, very far away from this state and never come back.”

“That’s not a very elaborate plan.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Charlie put his hand up in a pacifying gesture. “If you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you.”

Numbers turned to his partner and the two of them seemed to argue with each other in signs for a few seconds.

“We needed to retrieve some of our things before we left. You could come with us, we could settle things properly before we decide what we’re going to do.” Numbers said.

“You want to go back to Fargo?” Charlie asked incredulously.

“No, not Fargo. A safe place. Only we know about it. It’s a bit of a detour.”

Charlie sighed and flipped his phone open. “Let me call my secretary.”

 

Numbers felt tempted for a moment to make Charlie help with the digging. He was sure that the guy would concede in a second if he asked, but he knew it would be a dick move even for him. So he and Wrench took the shovels and unearthed the metal box as fast as possible. They’d already wasted enough time already circling through the lower half of Minnesota to cross the state border down south and then move northwest to the park. Anything to stay far away from Fargo and all its adjoining towns.

“What is this place?” Charlie asked, coming closer to the maple tree.

“Just a tourist trap for nature lovers and shit,” Numbers mumbled. When Charlie didn’t answer, he looked over his shoulder and saw their third wheeler standing next to the tree. He was looking at the carvings on the bark. He was examining them with that contemplative look on his face, the same quiet, distant demeanor that a person had when they had the gears in their head turning. Numbers realized that he didn’t want Charlie looking at the nostalgic prints of their boyhood days like that, not now, not ever.

Taking hold of one of the side handles of the box, Numbers cleared his throat. Charlie turned around, startled. Numbers rattled the box a little. “Give me a hand?”

“What’s that?” Charlie asked, pointing at the wrapped green nylon bundle in the corner when they opened the box.

“Has anyone ever told that you ask too many questions?” Numbers said. Charlie gave him a dirty look but he didn’t insist. “Give me your gun, we’re going to bury it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure, let’s go around carrying a weapon that matches the ballistic prints of a triple homicide, that’s such a great idea” Numbers scoffed. Wrench understood at least part of it, because he made a sound that was almost like a chuckle.

Charlie reached inside his coat and handed him his PPK with a resigned look. “Do you know how much trouble I went through to get this gun?”

“Do you know how much I care?” Numbers looked at the Walther closely, weighing it in his hand. He tried pointing it in the random direction of some trees in the distance and found that the width of his hand was too awkward around the grip. “Pardon my French, but how the fuck did you manage to land two headshots in the dark with this piece of shit?”

Charlie huffed out a laugh and shrugged. “Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you.”

“Oh, Jesus almightly…” Shaking his head, Numbers wiped the murder weapon with a piece of cloth and then wrapped it in it before depositing it in the bottom of the box. His fingers lingered over the rest of the weaponry laid out in the box, hesitating. He cocked his head to the side to exchange a look with his partner.

 _‘Be nice with him. There’s no point in taking more guns than we can carry.’_ Wrench said.

Rolling his eyes, Numbers retrieved the 1911 from inside the chest and offered it to Charlie. “Here, take this. Wouldn’t want ya getting killed because you didn’t have anything to defend yourself.”

Charlie accepted it, surprised. “Sure, thanks.”

So much for the most expensive handgun he’d ever owned. Although to be fair, Numbers hadn’t actually paid a dime for it. Between him and Wrench, they put all the contents of the box inside a duffel bag. Numbers took a wad of money and dangled it in front of Charlie’s face. “A repay for the inconveniences.”

The other man looked at the money with confusion for a second before dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Keep it.”

Numbers gritted his teeth. “I don’t want to owe you anything.”

“You don’t.”

Before Numbers could keep arguing about the matter, Wrench stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking his head slowly.

Charlie checked his watch. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. Is there any place where you two can stay for the night? You don’t have any friends, family, something?”

Wrench and Numbers shared a glance. Numbers felt his eyes widen in realization, a look that said ‘I just had a crazy idea’ to which his partner responded with a scowl that said ‘Oh God, here we go again’.

“Okay, this is kind of a long shot,” Numbers admitted. “But there might be someone…”

 

The metal glint of the letters ‘4D’ written on the chipped wood welcomed them when they crossed the corridor in that destitute apartment building. The door opened on the second knock.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Numbers wondered what had shocked Nicole the most, to see them at her door beaten black and blue, or to see them again at all. He shuffled in the doorway, uncomfortable.

“Um… Can we come in?”

She looked him up and down, and then her eyes shifted to Wrench and Charlie standing behind him. “Um… no?”

Numbers sighed. “Right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry, we’ll just…”

He started to turn around, but Nicole stopped him by touching him on the shoulder. “Wait, no. It’s okay man, you can come in and have a drink or something.” She took a step back, leaving room for them to enter. “Come on, it’s freezing out there. Bad day, huh?”

“The worst” Charlie said behind him.

The three men followed the small town girl inside her small apartment like some bizarre entourage. Wrench and Numbers sat down side by side on the couch, while Charlie chose to remain standing in a corner.

“I just made tea,” Nicole said. “And there’s some leftovers of tuna casserole in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

“It’s fine. We don’t need anything.” Numbers said, untying his scarf.

“Tea sounds terrific,” Charlie’s friendly voice said from the shadows. Because the guy was like a little kid who ignored the cues from everyone else around him and simply did his own thing.

Nicole left for the kitchen. Numbers took off his coat and folded it over the back of the couch. Wrench reached out and pulled down the cord of a floor lamp that had a fringed shade to make the room less dim. Nicole came back with a steaming mug, which she offered to Charlie. He accepted it with a smile and a gracious bow of his head, “thank you, miss,” and he winked his eye at her. She stammered something in reply, flustered, and crossed the room to plop herself down on the vacant armchair that was facing in a ninety degree angle to the couch.

“We just need a place to stay the night. We won’t bother you,” Numbers said, putting it out there. “Is that okay?”

“Sure, I guess.” She said. “But there’s only one spare bedroom, so somebody will have to take the couch.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be staying much longer” Charlie said, taking a sip.

“There’s only one bed in the guest room though,” she added.

Numbers chuckled. “It’s _fine_ ” he said with amusement.

She seemed to catch on what he meant. “Oh, okay. Cool.”

The living room fell in an awkward silence. Wrench was currently very interested in a magazine that he’d found on the coffee table. Charlie was drinking his tea in the corner, so quiet that you could almost forget that he was there. He was more out of place than any of them, which was saying something. Numbers would be more bothered by the ridiculousness of it all if he wasn’t so tired.

“Um, dude, not trying to be rude or anything,” Nicole said suddenly, narrowing her eyes at him, “but you do realize that I don’t even know your name yet, right?”

He didn’t miss the sideways glance that Charlie gave him from the corner, raising an eyebrow. Numbers opened his mouth to give her their lifelong aliases, but he closed it again because in that moment he realized how stupid it sounded. He could just give her a couple of fake names, but really, what was the point anymore?

“I’m Grady, he’s Wes,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie flip his head back in his direction with a look of surprise on his face. He ignored him completely. “Aaand he’s Charlie.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss” Numbers heard Charlie say, but he knew that the other man’s eyes were still focused on him.

“Well, ain’t this a real party,” the girl said, sitting cross-legged on the armchair and grabbing her ankles. She was wearing white socks with pink polka dots. “Had I known I’d have visitors for dinner, I would have cleaned up a bit.”

“It’s okay. You should see my apartment,” Charlie said. He walked over to the coffee table and leaned forward as if he was going to put the mug down on it, but stopped. “Do you have a coaster for this? I don’t want to leave stains everywhere.”

“Just leave it in the sink,” she said, making a vague notion in the direction of the kitchen with her hand.

Numbers peered down to whatever Wrench was reading. It was an issue of _Variety_ dating from a few months back. Shortly after, it looked like their host couldn’t deal with the awkward silence anymore and she got to her feet. “Well, I’ve had a long day too, and my plan before you lot got here was to lie down and relax. So if you guys don’t mind, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Numbers saw her walk out of the room just as Charlie came back from the kitchen. The third guest looked around the room, like he was trying to figure out where he fit in that picture. Numbers rolled his eyes and moved, leaving room in the couch for the other man to sit.

Charlie eased himself down in the far corner of the couch, occupying as little space as possible. “Well, this is weird.”

“For me, it’s not even in the top ten.” Numbers remarked.

Nicole came back with a cylindrical metal can with vintage drawings that looked like it was used to store ground tea leaves. She put it down on the coffee table and sat down on the armchair. She reached inside the tea can to pull out a small plastic bag of something that was definitely not tea, and started rolling herself a joint right in front of them.

Numbers could only blink at her with incredulity.

“Seriously? You can’t afford rent but you still have money for weed?” Charlie snickered at that, the little shit.

“Hey, I don’t tell you how to live your life!” Nicole said defensively. “And FYI, I got a promotion at work.”

“Congratulations,” Numbers grumbled.

“To be fair, it wasn’t very difficult. I basically got promoted because I was the only one who didn’t quit after six weeks.”

“What kind of job do you have, anyway?”

“I work in a call center. I take customer calls.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, that’s what I say.” She took a long drag and leaned back on the armchair, crossing her legs underneath her like she was unable to sit like a normal person. “You should stop sulking so much and chill a bit, dude.”

Numbers stared at the glowing red tip of the joint, the curve of her fingers around it, the poised look on her face. And he went back on all the things he’d been through in such a short time, and something inside him snapped and just said _fuck it_.

“Hey, can I have some of that?”

Nicole tilted her head to him and smirked. “Yes, of course. I think you need it more than me.” She leaned forward and passed him the joint. “Plus, it’s lame to smoke on your own when you have friends over.”

Numbers tried not to think too much on her usage of the word ‘friends’. He brought the wrapped roll of paper to his lips and took a tentative puff.

“Really?” Charlie said. “With all that’s going on, do you think this is the best time to get stoned?”

Numbers rubbed his eyes. “Look _Charles_ ,” he bit back, “the last forty-eight hours have been absolute hell, I think I fucking deserve it.”

“Hell yeah” Nicole said, making a fist pump in the air. She had no idea what he was talking about, of course, she was just happy to have a toking partner.

Charlie murmured something and shook his head, removing himself from the conversation. Numbers took a stronger hit of the thick cigarette, holding in the smoke in his lungs. It felt different than smoking regular tobacco, although the mechanics were essentially the same. “God, I haven’t done this in years.” Flicking his eyes to the side, he saw Wrench looking at him with a mischievous glint in his eye. His partner wagged his eyebrows at him, smirking. “Hey, do you mind if my friend here tries it too?” Numbers asked their host.

“Sure. Sharing is caring.” Nicole said. Then she turned to Charlie, who was keeping to himself very quietly, “Do you wanna join the party too?”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

They passed the joint around the three of them for a few minutes. Nicole babbled for quite a while, mostly complaining about nasty customers who took up too much of her time and screwed up her performance stats and then gave her bad feedback on top of it. Then she talked about a movie she’d seen that week that had given her nightmares, and then she talked about bowling or something, but Numbers wasn’t really paying much attention, to be honest.

“Woah, dude,” she said suddenly, looking at Charlie. “What– what  happened to your hand?”

His reply surprised Numbers, not because the guy actually answered, but because he delivered it with a completely straight face. “I bent it backwards during a volleyball match.”

“Oh. That’s awful.”

“I know, I haven’t been the same ever since.”

Numbers snorted, but Nicole didn’t notice. He caught Charlie giving him a smile of complicity out of the corner of his eye.

“Who are you anyway?” She asked Charlie. “These two, they look like shady guys. _Dangerous_ ,” she whispered that last word, gesticulating wildly, like she actually thought Numbers couldn’t hear it. “But you come here looking like, like the host of one of those hidden camera shows and any moment now a banner with the word ‘Intervention’ is going to drop from the ceiling and you’re going to tell me that my aunt Connie is watching from behind the glass and we’re all going to cry and hug and then you’re going to give me a new car.” Numbers was nodding along to everything she was saying, but then he realized that none of it made any fucking sense. He felt cheated.

“Sorry. Forgot the keys in my other coat.” Charlie said.

“Oh. But for real, you could work on TV. You have a very… regal air to you.”

“Yes, I’m practically royalty.” He laughed. “I’m the long lost prince of Bavaria!”

Numbers felt his eyes begin to grow droopy but he wasn’t sure of it was the effects of the weed starting to get to him or if it was just exhaustion. Most likely both. Charlie mumbled something about the smell making him dizzy and excused himself to get a glass of water. Nicole had already given up any pretensions of propriety and was curled up on the armchair like a cat, one arm around her folded legs and her head practically hanging off the armrest. Numbers followed her example and sprawled on the couch, occupying the space that Charlie had vacated.

Wrench pointed a finger at her and signed, _‘You have pretty hair.’_ He actually had to sign it twice. On the first try, he had to stop in the middle of the sentence to stare at his own hands with what could be described as bewilderment for almost twenty seconds before he remembered again what he was trying to say.

She stared at him blinking slowly for a moment. Then she laughed. “Haha… what?”

“He says you have split ends and you need to change your conditioner.” Numbers said.

This made her face turn to absolute horror. “N-no he didn’t!” But then she grabbed her long braid and examined the tips of her hair closely.

Numbers exhaled a puff of smoke and fixed his gaze on the curtains. What time was it? It occurred to him that they hadn’t really checked if the area was safe. Sure, Nicole’s connection with Fargo was flimsy and he doubted any of his bosses would remember about the ex-girlfriend of one their dozens of dead middlemen, but still… He couldn’t help but think that if a group of assassins busted through the door in that moment he wouldn’t be able to react on time. And wouldn’t that be a great inscription for his tombstone? ‘Here lies a man who died because he was too baked to shoot straight’. Okay, that was a little bit funny. But wait, no, they had Charlie to back them up if they got ambushed. Their one-armed knight in shining armor. Maybe he’d bore their enemies to death with his stories. And where the hell was he, anyway? Perhaps he’d fallen down the sink. This thought sounded very funny in his head for some reason, and Numbers found himself giggling uncontrollably.

Wrench turned his head to look at him, frowning. _‘What’s so funny?’_

Numbers raised his hands to answer, but then he dropped them again. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

Wrench simply stared at him without blinking, like he couldn’t keep his eyes off him. Numbers’ laughter died in his throat. Looking at him with that same intensity, Wrench draped an arm over the back of the couch, like a jaguar stalking his prey, and leaned forward until he was towering over his partner. Numbers gulped. He didn’t know what strand of cannabis Nicole’s dealer was selling, but _dear Lord_ was it making him horny. Not breaking eye contact for a moment, Wrench took a long drag of the joint and held the smoke inside his mouth. He put his fingers under Numbers’ chin and closed the few inches that separated them. It didn’t take Numbers by surprise when they kissed, but he wasn’t prepared for Wrench to puff the smoke into his mouth and he didn’t inhale fast enough. He coughed, and he felt his partner’s smile around his lips. Numbers tilted his head to the side to catch his breath and shifted a little, making himself more comfortable. Wrench left the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table and they resumed making out shamelessly.

“Oookay, I know when I’m overstaying my welcome.” Numbers heard Charlie say from somewhere in the living room. “I really should go.”

“No, man, stay. I like your company” came Nicole’s dazed voice from the armchair.

“Miss, you just met me,” he said.

“Ah, I like it when you call me ‘miss’” she said with a dreamy voice. “It’s so old-fashioned…”

“Alright, now I definitely should go.”

Numbers wasn’t really listening to them, he was too busy focusing on Wrench’s tongue playing a game of shadowboxing with his tonsils. He’d heard that marihuana only accentuated one’s personality traits, and in the case of Wrench, it seemed like it was making him even clingier than usual.

They stopped when a pillow came flying at them and hit Wrench in the back of the head. “Hey, get a room, you two!” Nicole protested.

Numbers rolled his eyes. “We would, but this isn’t our house, so…”

“Jesus, second door to the right. Keep it down, okay?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Numbers said, scrambling to his feet. Nicole resumed finishing up what was left of the joint by herself. Charlie was standing by the window, peering through the curtains with an absentminded look. Wasn’t he leaving? Numbers quickly forgot about that and he grabbed Wrench by the arm and the two of them dashed out of the living room.

Wrench pushed Numbers backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed. He fell on his back on the duvet, dragging his partner with him.

 _‘Happy Valentine’s day’_ Wrench signed before diving in to suck on his neck.

Numbers pushed him off gently. _‘That was yesterday.’_

Wrench shrugged. _‘Since when do we follow calendars like normal people?’_

“Touché.” Numbers said with a smile. _‘Continue.’_

Wrench didn’t need to be told twice. Numbers closed his eyes, his head buzzing from the pot and what his partner’s hands were doing to him in that moment.

“I love you, Wes, God, I love you so fucking much…” he panted, over and over again, until he was out of breath. It was the weed. It was making him sappy. Wrench didn’t know what he was saying, but he felt the vibrations along his throat, and he must have guessed it, because he signed those words back at him with a hand on his partner’s chest.

Numbers felt teeth on his neck and hissed. “Hey, no hickeys!” Wrench of course didn’t hear him, and even if he could, he would have just ignored him. He sighed. “Fine, whatever.”

 

Charlie took the tea can from the coffee table and twirled it around in his hands. The drawings on it were old and scratched, but the colors were still bright. A merchant ship navigating across the Indic ocean, its sails billowing under the sun, on its quest to bring the precious leaves for His Majesty’s preferred beverage. His grandmother had tea and coffee cans similar to that one, but they were more frugal in design. Some of them were mementos that his great-grandfather Dieter had brought from Germany. One of them had an Art Nouveau-style drawing of a girl with short curly hair, the words _Friemann Kaffee_ in bold cursive letters at the bottom. Charlie knew that Oma kept a revolver inside that one, although he wasn’t supposed to know.

“What’s eating you, Mr. Charlie?” Nicole asked, pulling him out of his reverie.

“Nothing,” he said. He gently put down the tea can on the table.

“You got an old lady waiting for ya at home? You worried what she might think if she finds out where you spent the night?”

He chuckled. “No, nothing like that. I’m kind of a loner, actually.”

“Yeah, I guess you look like one.”

He made a vague notion with his hand at her, at her general state of disarray. “Are you always this careless around total strangers?”

She frowned, looking down. “Well… usually not. But… lately I haven’t been feeling like myself. Ever since my boyfriend left… I don’t even remember what it’s like to be single. It’s like…” she waved her hand up and down in circular motions, like she was trying to come up with the right words, and she made plane noises with her hands. “Now that I have all this new weird freedom, it’s like a part of me wants to push myself out of my comfort zone. Just to see how far I can go, I guess.”

“That can be dangerous.”

“Maybe. But you look like you can be trusted.”

“You’re stoned.”

She pouted. “And you’re mean.”

He smiled momentarily before adopting a serious stance. He got on his feet. “Alright, Nicole, I think you’ve had enough for today. You need to go to bed.”

Surprisingly, she complied, raising from the armchair sluggishly. “Wait,” she said, “how do you know my name?”

“You mentioned it before. When you were telling us about Pete from management.”

“Oh, yes, he’s a dickhead.”

Charlie put a hand on her back and pushed her gently towards the door. “Yes, Nicole, he’s a dickhead. But one day you’ll have his job.”

“God, I hope not. I don’t want to stay in that shitty job long enough to become Pete…”

She disappeared among the shadows down the corridor. Charlie took off his coat and lied down on the couch, wrapping himself in a blanket that he found lying around. He was still cold, so he covered himself with his coat as well.

The wind howled against the windows. He felt an odd kind of loneliness, and the lingering guilt and shame from the killing that had carved a hole inside him and taken a part of him that he knew would never be returned. But at the same time, Charlie had not felt more at peace with himself in a long time.


	11. Deserters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was not part of their blood, it came to them very late.”  
> The enemy of my enemy is a total dork.

There was something heavy pressing on Wrench’s arm to the point where it had gone numb, and his back was cold. But his mind was still in that point between dreaming and awake where he preferred to deal with those small inconveniences as long as he didn’t have to move and ruin that moment of peacefulness. But eventually, the chilling sensation along his spine and the cramping on his arm became too annoying and he opened his eyes. Numbers had fallen asleep half on top of him and was drooling a little on his shoulder. He had slipped under the blankets so that only the top of his head was visible. He was greedily curled up in them like a human-sized cocoon. Wrench pushed him off gently, shaking his arm to relieve the painful tingling, and tugged at the blanket until it was distributed in a more egalitarian manner. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. And more importantly, he was hungry. Like, really fucking hungry.

Turning his head to the side, he admired the rare sight of his partner in a deep, peaceful sleep. Usually Numbers was a light sleeper, he would awake at the tiniest disturbance. Wrench reached out and traced the other man’s eyebrow with his finger. Numbers’ nose twitched in his sleep, and Wrench pulled back with a smile. Numbers opened his eyes slowly to Wrench looking at him like he could do just that all day and never get tired of it.

“Hey,” Numbers said, rolling to lie flat on his back. Wrench grinned at him and wiped a bit of drool from the corner of Numbers’ mouth with his thumb.

 _‘We should do that more often’_ Wrench signed, before moving his hand to rub small circles on his partner’s arm. It was like he couldn’t stop touching him. He wasn’t doing it consciously, but it was like in the back of his mind, there was this tingling, this unstoppable need to maintain physical contact or else Numbers would slip between his fingers.

 _‘Do what?’_ Numbers asked. _‘The smoking pot together or the wild monkey sex?’_

Wrench gave him a lopsided grin. _‘Both.’_

Numbers shook his head and said something unintelligible. He made an attempt at getting up, but instead tangled himself in the sheets, lost his balance, and ended up falling off the edge of the bed and into the floor.

Wrench looked at the empty space on the bed that his partner had just been occupying, and he burst out laughing. He knew he was laughing loudly because his belly was shaking like he had hiccups. He poked his head out the edge of the bed and peered down at Numbers with amusement. _‘You okay down there?’_ he asked in between giggles.

Numbers blinked in confusion for a moment before scowling. _‘Very funny. Help me up, please?’_

Still grinning, Wrench pulled his partner up and gave him a big, wet kiss.

Numbers pulled apart and coughed. _‘I have a massive headache.’_

 _‘I could eat a horse right now’_ Wrench said.

 _‘I bet you could’_ Numbers said. _‘I’m going to take a shower. Don’t bother me if the girl gets mad at you for ransacking her pantry.’_

 

The Gerhardt guy was still asleep on the couch, dead to the world. Wrench tiptoed through the living room around him on his way to the kitchen. The actual kitchen was a tiny long space between walls not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with just an empty gap as a doorframe, and a dining table and chairs were placed in the corner of the room right outside of it for the sake of convenience. He opened the refrigerator and peered through the contents inside. He was a bit rusty on stoner etiquette, but he felt like helping himself to his host’s food was overstepping his boundaries. He closed the fridge door and searched through the cupboards instead. He grabbed a bag of potato chips and sat down at the table, figuring that maybe she wouldn’t notice.

Nicole walked into the dining room, wearing a purple bathrobe over a pair of Hello Kitty pyjamas. Wrench froze, mid chew, his fingers covered with incriminatory crumbs. Nicole stood in the doorway and blinked her eyes at him sleepily. She said something, and staggered to the fridge. She pulled out a serving tray covered in tin foil paper and put it down on the table in front of him. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but she saw the perplexed look on his face and seemed to remember that Wrench couldn’t hear her. Shaking her head, she gave him a plate and a spoon wordlessly before she moved to get the coffee maker started. Wrench pinched the corner of the foil paper cover with two fingers and lifted it. Tuna casserole. It smelled fucking glorious.

 _‘I could kiss you right now’_ he signed with his mouth full.

Nicole stared at him dumbfounded. But, apparently, she caught the general meaning of the sign for ‘kiss’, because she winced a little with a “please don’t” and then she said something along the lines of ‘too hungover for this’.

Numbers joined them shortly after. He and Nicole exchanged a few words. Numbers poured himself a glass of water and took a seat in front of his partner.

 _‘Casserole for breakfast? This is new.’_ Numbers signed, pointing at the tray.

 _‘You should try it,’_ Wrench said. Then he added, _‘You’re glowing.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘You look more healthy. Relaxed.’_ Wrench explained. _‘You always look like that the morning after I’ve fucked you until you see stars. It must be good for your skin.’_

He had a shit eating grin on his face and he knew it. Numbers flipped him off and stole a spoonful of macaroni from his plate. Wrench turned his head sideways and saw Nicole looking at them with a mild confused expression. He gave her a wide smile, flashing his big bright eyes at her innocently. She said something that he didn’t even try to decipher and continued sipping her coffee.

 _‘Is the guy still asleep?’_ Wrench asked, pointing his finger in the direction of the living room door.

_‘Yes. He sleeps like the dead.’_

_‘That’s not a good thing.’_

_‘Probably’_ Numbers conceded.

_‘I’m going to wake him up.’_

_‘Suit yourself’_ Numbers was already grabbing his plate and helping himself to another serving.

 

Charlie was sleeping on his back with his good arm draped over his chest, his face turned to the back of the couch. His feet were dangling off the edge of the armrest, clad in navy blue executive socks, and his shoes were lined up neatly on the floor by his side. He gave the impression that he wasn’t even breathing. But when Wrench approached him and put a hand on his shoulder, his eyes flew open and he jolted awake with a look of fright on his face. Charlie jerked back, leaning away from Wrench’s hand, and for a second he looked up with shock at the man towering over him before he seemed to remember where he was.

“Sorry,” Charlie said. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but instead he just turned to the side and stood up sluggishly, shaking his head.

 _‘Bad dream?’_ Wrench asked. Charlie stared at him for a moment and then nodded slowly. Wrench honestly couldn’t tell if the other man was just answering politely in an ‘if-you-can’t-understand-what-they’re-saying-just-smile-and-nod’ kind of way, or if he’d actually guessed what Wrench was asking. It didn’t matter, because Charlie turned around and left for the bathroom without another word.

 _‘You’re weird’_ Wrench signed to Charlie’s retreating back.

 

“Sorry” Numbers said after Wrench left. “I swear we’re not just a pair of shameless freeloaders.”

Crossing the doorway to come take the seat that Wrench had just vacated, Nicole waved her hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I also get the munchies the morning after. By the way, pass me that tray, I’m fucking starving.”

Numbers did so. They ate in silence for a little while. She was looking at him funny, and Numbers began to feel really self-conscious.

“You a fan of Impressionism?” The girl asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

She pointed a cheese-covered spoon at him. “Your neck looks like a Monet painting.”

His first reaction was to raise his hand to cover the embarrassing hickeys, as if that was going to do anything. He was going to kill Wrench. “Oh. Wow, you’re so witty, aren’t you.”

“Hey, just because I dropped out of college doesn’t mean I’m some uncultured swine.” She giggled. “Don’t be ashamed, you should wear those like a badge of honor.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Numbers said. She nodded, and kept stuffing her face with cold leftovers. For a minute, he just looked at her, chewing slowly.

“You look… good.” Numbers said, unprompted.

“Thanks, I guess?”

“I mean… How are you… doing? You know, in general.”

This was why Numbers preferred interrogations. They were scripted and they had a clear list of objectives and steps to follow. But these types of conversations were aimless. They didn’t come with instructions, and they always felt so awkward.

“Well, I didn’t get evicted, as you can see.” Nicole said. “Nothing much has happened. Still getting used to living alone.” She scratched her ear, casting her eyes down on her plate. “I’m trying to find a roommate, I really don’t like being on my own all the time. Being single all of a sudden after all these years is fucking weird, man.”

“There’s worse things out there” Numbers mumbled. He really didn’t have a lot of meaningful advice to give her. “Although I’d probably go insane if I had to live in this town. You don’t even have a music store.”

“Um, dude, we do have a music store.”

“Really?”

“I mean, you can borrow CDs from the library. I think they have Neil Young’s whole discography and stuff.”

Numbers rolled his eyes. “Neil Young. Sure, I might go check it out if I feel like slitting my wrists.”

“That’s dark” she said. “This town isn’t so bad, when you think about it. I guess it only feels like a shithole sometimes because my job sucks and I have no friends.”

“That’s… very insightful of you” he noted. “And give me a break, those two things can be easily fixed. I wish my problems were as easy to solve as that.” He paused, and looked pointedly at her Hello Kitty pyjamas. “How old are you again, Freckles?”

She wrinkled her nose adorably at the unexpected nickname. “I’m, uh, twenty-four.”

God, that made him feel fucking old. “See? You’re still a kid. Everybody’s broke in their twenties. If you want my opinion, you seem to have your shit together more than most people I know. You’ll be okay. Hell, this place is much better than my first apartment. You kids just love to complain.”

“Whatever you say, grandpa.” Nicole said. Then she added, casually, “Although you wouldn’t say that if you saw the cockroaches.”

Numbers was going to grab another bite of the casserole, but his hand froze with that last word. “What?”

“Oh, yes, this building has a plague of roaches, but of course, they always forget to mention that little detail when you sign the lease.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less.”

“They only come out during the summer though, and I keep them at bay with bait gel and cleaning a lot, so you’re safe for now. But back in August, when we first moved here, on the first week I woke up one night and I had one of those bugs crawling up my face.”

He made a face. “God, that’s fucking disgusting. What the hell did you do?”

“Well, I woke Jasper with my screaming, and then I ran to the bathroom to throw up while he killed the cockroach. Then I cried for an hour. Then I took a long shower. And then I cried some more.”

Numbers moved the plate of casserole to the side. “Well, there goes my appetite.”

“Jasper made fun of me for weeks after that…” she said.

Her face had a look of mournful longing as she said it, and she went very quiet. Numbers felt a sinking feeling in his stomach all of a sudden, and for reasons that he couldn’t even explain he felt the urge to remove that look from her face.

He’d found bottles of men’s shampoo and deodorant in the bathroom, and he’d wondered why Nicole hadn’t thrown them out yet. Perhaps a small part of her was still clinging to the possibility that Jasper might return one day. Numbers had stood on the shower tiles for a minute, pondering on the symbolism of using a dead man’s personal belongings when he was the one directly responsible for said man’s demise. Well, it was either that or using Nicole’s girly shampoo. He was actually mulling over the choice between symbolic tomb robbery and coconut and vanilla fragrance.

Oh, Jesus. It was just fucking soap.

“I just… I don’t understand what the hell you were doing with that guy.” He said softly. “The… the way you described him, he sounded like a grade-A asshole. You don’t seem like the type to tolerate that kind of bullshit. I don’t get it.”

He almost said ‘the way he acted’ but he caught himself just in time.

“Well, it’s not like he was some random guy I met in a bar!” She said, frowning. “We grew up in the same town, graduated from the same high school… He was my first serious boyfriend. I always thought that we’d get married, open a family store or something and have lots of cute babies.” She smiled a little, a nostalgic reflection of long lost hopes and dreams. It quickly faded. “But then… I don’t know. We grew up, and he changed. We both changed. I started talking about going back to school and getting a real estate license, and he started hanging out with bad people.”

Numbers stared at her, or rather, at the white and yellow checkered tiles on the wall behind her.

“Yeah. People like me.” He said.

She gave him a sad look, like she wanted to disagree with him to make him feel better, but couldn’t come up with any counterarguments based on what little she knew about him.

“You going to tell me how you got that black eye?” She prodded him instead.

Numbers winced. “You should see the other guy.” He said, completely unironically.

Nicole started saying something in reply, but then her eyes darted to something that was behind Numbers and she cut herself short. He turned around and saw Charlie standing in the doorway. They hadn’t heard him enter. Numbers didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, listening.

“Uh, I think we should get going” Charlie said, walking in. He looked inexplicably neat and fresh for someone who had slept on the couch with his clothes on. “It’s getting late.”

“So soon?” Nicole asked.

“I have a job I have to get back to at some point, you know,” Charlie pointed out, filling himself a glass of water from the tap. “Um, thanks for everything.”

That said, Charlie pulled out his cell phone and hastily stumbled out of the room to talk with some privacy.

“He’s a bit awkward, but he’s cool” Numbers said to Nicole. He didn’t even know why he was defending the guy when he’d known him for twenty-four hours. He rose from his seat and left his dirty plate in the sink. She didn’t have a dishwasher. “I can do the dishes if you want. It’s the least I can do.”

Nicole looked at him without answering, and he noticed that the green in her eyes had golden rings around the pupils that looked like solar eclipses. She tilted her head a little and frowned, like she had just realized something about him that she hadn’t seen before, and her mouth fell open in a show of disappointment. “I’m not going to see you guys ever again, am I?”

Numbers turned around and squealed unintentionally, fumbling for words. “Hey, who knows? Life’s full of surprises. Never say never, right?” He must be still high. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, very serious, “Trust me, it’s better for you if we don’t stay around for too long.”

The girl nodded, and the sad look on her face was too much for him to handle in that moment, mainly because he didn’t know what he’d done to even be worthy of it. “Okay.” She said.

And then, Nicole moved swiftly to him, and before he could react she had her arms wrapped around him. She was a good hand span shorter than him, and she pressed her cheek against his chest and whined audibly. He could have pushed her away, but he was too confused by the whole thing more than anything, so he just stood there unmoving.

“There, there.” He said, patting her back stiffly. He felt like an idiot.

Nicole pulled apart and looked down, rubbing her arms. “Sorry. Suddenly I just felt like doing that.”

She was just lonely, he decided. And somehow she’d caught vibrations from him that signaled that he was lonely, too. This is what happened when you showed alienated and forsaken people a tiny beam of kindness: they got attached to you like they suddenly couldn’t imagine living the rest of their lives without you in them.

He raised his index finger at her sternly. “Go out. Make some friends. Normal friends, I mean. Become a realtor. Have lots of cute babies.”

“Okay.” She said. “Workin’ on it.”

Those last three words seemed to encompass his current mindset so perfectly that it was hard to believe that they weren’t on purpose.

 

They abandoned their car somewhere in the woods before crossing the state border, after taking all their belongings from it and placing them in Charlie’s car. Their companion didn’t look very happy about it, or rather, he didn’t look very happy about the fact that their situation required them to abandon their car because it had been involved in not one, but two crime scenes. He didn’t make a peep about it, at least, although they could see in the hard set lines on his face that he was having second thoughts about this whole thing. Wrench had expressed curiosity about Charlie’s automobile abilities giving his, well, condition. (“I can drive just fine. I’m just not allowed to drive cars with manual transmission.”)

Midmorning, they stopped for gas somewhere in southern Minnesota. They had driven in their two cars, Charlie leading the way at the front and them following. While Wrench was paying at the cash register, Numbers leaned back against the car and watched the road while Charlie talked on the phone. The guy seemed addicted to the damn thing. Charlie ended the call and crossed the gas station to join him. He had a look of remorse in his face, and seemed distracted.

“Trouble up home?” Numbers asked him.

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to my assistant to fill me in about the last couple of days. Apparently our stocks didn’t plummet and the building didn’t burn down during my absence. She sounded very passive-agressive.”

“I wonder why” Numbers said with a chuckle. He estimated that Charlie hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, because the shadow of a two-day stubble was starting to show on his face. The man kept scratching at it, unconsciously. “Forgot your razor home?”

“Ugh. I haven’t gone this long without shaving in ages. It feels so weird.”

“You should try growing a full beard in the winter. It’s like a built-in scarf for your face.”

“How’s your eye?” Charlie asked out of the blue.

“I’ll live” he grumbled. “I haven’t noticed any significant drop in IQ, so it’s all good.”

“Those guys knew what they were doing” Charlie said, and Numbers couldn’t help notice a hint of anger in his voice.

“No, actually, this was from some other guy, earlier that day,” he said, rubbing his bruised temple. “I think he knew jiu-jitsu or some shit. Never seen anything like it.”

“Joanna Caplan” Charlie said. It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t wanna talk about it” Numbers said bluntly. His companion opened his mouth to refute, but he cut him off before he had a chance to. “Just let it go, okay? And anyway, I think you’ve already pieced the whole thing together by yourself. Good for you. Now leave me alone.”

He turned away and fiddled with the contents of his pockets. Damn, he could use a smoke. Charlie didn’t say anything for a moment, he just kept giving him sideway glances that Numbers pretended not to notice until it began to feel annoying.

“So… Grady…” Charlie began to say.

“Don’t call me that” Numbers snapped.

Only Wrench was allowed to call him that.

“But… that’s your name.” Charlie pointed out reasonably. “Isn’t it?”

Numbers gave him a shrug, still not looking at him. “It sounds dumb. Never liked it much.”

Charlie moved to lean against the car beside him, although he still left a reasonable space between them. He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “My dad wanted to call me Siegfried, after my great-great-grandfather or something, but my mother put her foot down.”

“I don’t even know who my father was, let alone my grandparents” Numbers said, digging his heel in the ground. “Siegfried is not so terrible. It sounds kind of exotic and romantic.” He turned to look at the other man sideways with a smirk. “I bet you were drowning in pussy in high school, with your whole ‘shy and mysterious’ shtick.”

“Not exactly an easy feat when you’re not allowed to bring any friends home and there are paranoid relatives controlling you every minute of the day.” Charlie pointed out.

“Of course, can’t have little Timmy walking on uncle Barney breaking some dude’s legs with a crowbar in the garage when you two are supposed to be doing homework, right?”

“Uncle Dodd, actually. But yes, basically.”

The door of the station opened and Wrench came out of the store.

 _‘What took you so long?’_ Numbers asked when he came closer.

His partner answered by dumping a pair of small boxes in his hands. Numbers read the writing on the packaging and saw that they were burner phones.

“Yes, I was about to suggest exactly that.” Charlie said.

“Sure you were.” Numbers said rolling his eyes.

 _‘What were you two talking about?’_ Wrench asked him.

Numbers put the boxes on the roof of the car so he could sign freely. _‘He was telling me how he couldn’t get any in high school because his family were a bunch of antisocial dickheads.’_

_‘You’re already asking him about his sex life? That’s kind of rude.’_

_‘He was the one who brought it up in the first place!’_

“This is going to become a thing, isn’t it?” Charlie mused out loud.

“Hey, I’m a very accurate translator.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wrench giving him a deadpan look about that statement.

Wrench flicked his eyes to the other man, examining him with interest. _‘Ask him what were they like. His family.’_

Numbers translated the question, and Charlie looked genuinely shocked by it. “Oh. Wow. Nobody has really asked me that in a long time. There aren’t a lot of people still alive who remember my family. And those who do don’t usually have a lot of nice things to say about them.”

“You sound resentful.”

Charlie clicked his tongue. “It’s complicated. I can’t give you an honest answer because whatever I say will be heavily biased. They were far from saints, and some of them were real bastards, even monsters to some, but… they were my family. When my uncle was murdered, I volunteered to kill the guy who did it because in my mind, I was delivering justice. Because if you can’t even stand for your own family, what kind of person are you? But then when I went to the shop where the guy who did it worked, there was this girl manning the register. She was my age, and somehow I ended up talking about Camus with her for almost ten minutes and I almost forgot what I had come to do in the first place.” His eyes drifted, looking far away. Numbers was having a hard time keeping up with him in his translation, so he appreciated the pause. “In retrospect, I think I was trying to put off the whole thing. And Virgil, some guy who worked with my other uncle, was waiting for me in the car, and he’d been very clear about the whole ‘no witnesses’ thing. But when he told me that I was like, yeah, sure, whatever, but I don’t think I fully understood the repercussions of that rule until I was right there, and this girl, a real person, was standing in the way. And I thought, I, I don’t know what this is, but this doesn’t feel like justice.”

There was no evident remorse or sorrow in his voice. He wasn’t looking for validation. He just related those events as they were, with little emotional inflection. But the look on his face was so earnest, so plain and devoid of any pretenses, that it made Numbers feel deeply unsettled. He realized that, change just a few details, and that could have been his own life story. With the behaviour that Charlie had exhibited so far, Numbers would have been inclined to call the man naïve if he didn’t know any better. In a small moment of revelation in which a bunch of random and unrelated things he’d learned in the past seemed to click together, he recalled Viper’s speech about how people like them lived separate from the rest of the world by a glass wall. And from what he could perceive, Charlie had the look of a man who had lived on both sides of the glass. He was a man who had climbed on top of the glass, glanced down, realized that it was all meaningless bullshit anyway, and moved on to go his own way.

“Did you do it?” Numbers asked. “Did you kill the guy who killed your uncle?”

“I tried to. I didn’t try really hard, but I tried. Too bad that simply ‘trying’ is still a pretty big deal when it comes to homicide.”

Numbers could tell that there was more to that story, but Charlie went somberly quiet after that, and Numbers got the impression that he wasn’t going to elaborate on that if they asked.

And suddenly, Charlie laughed, catching Numbers off guard. It sounded a bit hysterical, almost disturbing. “You know, there’s a joke in the goddamn Simpsons of all places that says that going to prison for attempted murder is like winning a Nobel Prize for attempted chemistry!”

Wrench and Numbers exchanged a wordless look. Numbers sighed. “Come on, let’s go before your company burns to the ground for real.”

 

The floor was almost empty when they arrived, as the majority of the plaintiff was seemingly out for lunch. Numbers suspected that Charlie had timed their arrival that way so his employees didn’t see him stroll in with his two new friends in tow. Numbers spotted a brunette woman behind a desk at the far end of the room, holding the post on her own. Charlie crammed the box of pastries he was carrying under his arm and strode across the crispy-white sea of cubicles towards her, the two hitmen following closely. A chubby man with the collar of his shirt pulled so tight around his neck that it looked like it was choking him poked his head out of his working receptacle. He looked at them with astonishment, his eyes bulging out of their eyelids. Numbers grinned at him and gave him a thumbs-up as they passed by. The man recoiled back into the cubicle, like a tortoise folding back into his shell.

“Nice place” Numbers said. “I can smell the air freshener and mid-life crisis around here.”

“Shut up” Charlie hissed. The woman behind the desk raised her eyes at them when she heard them approach, and Charlie quickly gave her a guileless smile. “Hello there, Felicity.”

“Oh,” the woman said, giving him a flat look. And then she added, with a tone infinitely more flippant than Numbers would have expected, “You came back at the right time, I was about to hijack your office and usurp your place. I don’t anyone would notice the difference.”

“Don’t recommend it. The hours are insane.” Her boss said. He left the box on her desk and pushed it toward her. “Thought you might be hungry.”

She lifted the lid of the box just a little. “Danish pastries?”

“You bet.”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she pushed the box aside with a manicured finger and directed her gaze to Wrench and Numbers. “Is this why you’ve been absent for two days? You’ve been headhunting?”

“Something like that” Charlie answered without explaining himself any further.

“We represent a corporation that has some unfinished business with Mr. Gerhardt” Numbers chimed in. “They go waaay back. We’re helping here to ensure that everything goes smoothly from both sides.” The smile didn’t leave his face for one second as he recited that. It was not his unnerving, sarcastic smile, the one he reserved for people he didn’t like. No, it was his neutral smile, the one that was convincing enough for people he didn’t have anything against but didn’t particularly want to interact with either. And wasn’t it amazing how he could spew bullshit like that while at the same time still technically be telling the truth?

“Yes, that’s right” Charlie said without fumbling, and Numbers could have given him an award for his performance. “We have a lot of work to do, talk to you later.”

“Okay…” she said.

Charlie led them to his office and closed the door behind them. The room was austere, with shelves stacked with what looked like accounting books and boring stuff like that, and a couple of diplomas and a painting of a castle hanging on the walls. What looked like a prosthetic arm was exhibited within a glass cabinet.

“What is it that you guys sell in here, exactly?” Numbers asked, although he could already guess the answer.

In lieu of answering, Charlie opened the cabinet and retrieved the fake arm. He tossed it to Numbers, who barely had time to catch it. “Don’t worry, it’s an old model. I keep it here because it distracts visitors from the lack of Ivy League diplomas.”

Numbers flipped the artificial limb around in his hands. It was heavier than it looked. He passed the prosthetic arm to Wrench, who immediately started fiddling with it like he wanted to tear it apart to see what it looked like on the inside. “Have you ever tried playing baseball with this thing?”

“No, but it has surprisingly good aerodynamics for cricket though” Charlie deadpanned.

“Guess if you get your legs blown off by an IED in Afghanistan you can use any consolation you can get” Numbers commented, signing and speaking. Wrench frowned like he didn’t quite catch what ‘I-E-D’ meant right away. “Ugh, how do I explain this…” Numbers signed ‘homemade’ and ‘explosive’ and that would have been enough, but he was feeling talkative. He depicted a vehicle (he didn’t know if there was a sign for ‘tank’) going down the road and getting blown off in an explosion quite dramatically. And then, using his left hand to represent a person inside the vehicle, he mimicked cutting his legs off and then the mutilated soldier crawling out of the wreckage as he cried in agony. Wrench snorted and gave him an ‘ok’ sign.

“That looks fun. I wish half of my fingers weren’t all stiff so I could learn how to do it” Charlie said.

Numbers cleared his throat. “It… has its perks.” He usually simplified a lot more than that when he translated, but he’d gotten a bit carried away. A thought occurred to him and he asked, “If you could, would you cut off your bad arm and swap it for a cyborg limb or something?”

Charlie snickered. “Technology isn’t quite there yet.”

“Okay, but if it was, would you consider getting a cool robot arm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Anyway,” Numbers said, "I doubt you brought us here to have a debate about transhumanism.”

“You’re correct.” Charlie took the prosthesis from Wrench and put it back inside the case carefully. Then he sat down in the office chair behind the desk and waved his hand for them to have a seat. They did, and Numbers could tell that things were about to get serious.

“You told me yesterday that were planning on leaving Fargo. Did you have anywhere in mind?”

Numbers shrugged. “It’s a big country, it’s not like we’re short on options.”

Charlie looked at them for a moment, and Numbers knew that he was trying to get a read of them. The guy had been doing that a lot ever since they’d met, watching them in between words like he was studying their reactions, throwing inquisitive glances their way when he thought they didn’t notice.

“Do you know why I decided to track down Tripoli and find out what he’s up to?”

“Because he got your family killed and you want revenge?” Numbers said, like it was obvious.

“Yes and no.” Charlie paused for a second and averted his eyes to the door, like he was listening in anticipation of something. When he didn’t seem to hear what he was awaiting for, he returned his attention to his two guests and continued. “That was always there, the betrayal, but I had buried it in the past. I don’t like dwelling in the past, y’know? I try to only look forward, almost to the point of compulsion like my psychologist cousin would say. That’s why I focus so much on my job, why I get so anxious planning things for the future, why I…” He cut himself off before finishing that thought, and shook his head. “You know how the more you try _not_ to think about something, the more you obsess with it? Well, a few months ago I guess I had some sort of… epiphany. And I realized that what’s been eating me inside all these years was not a desire for revenge. It was all the questions I never had the chance to ask. If I had Hanzee, or Tripoli, or whatever the fuck he calls himself these days, in front of me right now, I think I’d just ask him _why_. My family were not good people, I’m not denying that, but when I was a kid I thought they were fair, in their own kind of way. Hanzee was my uncle’s enforcer and he was always kept on a short leash, so I never actually knew the guy all that well. But fuck, I used to see him around the house all the damn time, I never got the impression that he was unhappy. And then what he did… None of us saw it coming. I read the police reports a few years later, you know? He looked my grandmother in the eye and he _stabbed_ her. Right here.” He pointed to the spot where his heart was. “Do you know what it’s like to discover that someone you’ve known your whole life, someone you almost considered part of your family, has been secretly hating you all along? Do you know how that feels?”

Numbers looked at the framed photographs on the desk. They were facing Charlie, so he couldn’t actually see them from his side. Charlie kept the photos turned away from visitors, in a way that he could glance at them while he worked.

“No. I don’t.”

Charlie hesitated for a second, and eventually he asked: “What does thinking about Fargo make you feel? Right now, I mean. Fear? Anger? Disappointment?”

Numbers threw his hands in the air and scoffed. “What the fuck is this, man?”

“What I’m doing,” Charlie said very slowly, “is asking you what you’re willing to do.”

 _‘Is he saying what I think he’s saying?’_ Wrench asked him.

Numbers gazed at the man in front of him with a sick kind of curiosity. He smirked. “Are you a schemer, Mr. Gerhardt? Is that what you want? You want to bring down the syndicate? Burn the whole thing to the ground so they don’t even know what hit them?”

To his surprise, Charlie mirrored his smirk with a hint of ill-will that Numbers hadn’t seen on him before. “That wasn’t my plan originally,” Charlie said. “But I’m not opposed to the idea. Can you tell me where to start?”

Numbers turned to his partner. _‘Should we show him the book?’_

 _‘Fuck it, let’s do it’_ Wrench answered.

Numbers dug inside his coat and pulled out Carlyle’s ledger. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving it in the car, so he’d been carrying it around the whole day. “This is what we have.”

Charlie took the accounting book gingerly and started leafing through the pages. “The guys at Fargo keep records of their illegal business?”

“More like one guy in particular.” Numbers said. “He’s a control freak, he keeps records of everything.”

“Wait…” Charlie said. “Something here doesn’t feel right.” He turned the page he was on back and forth, rereading the contents on both sides. “This doesn’t add up. Did you take a look at this thing?”

“Eh… I skimmed through it” Numbers admitted. “It’s a no brainer that the numbers on it are rigged, I don’t expect them to be transparent on all their gun and drug deals. Not even on private documents that are meant for privy eyes only.”

“I’ve heard of this before. When someone is running an illegal business on the side, it’s common practice to keep two accounting books.” Charlie explained. “One of them is fake, with the numbers tampered on it. And the other is the real one, the one that shows all the juicy shady stuff.”

“And this is the fake one.”

“No, actually, I think this is the real deal” Charlie said. “But it’s written in some kind of… code.”

“A code? Seriously?” Numbers groaned. Give it to Carlyle to be anal enough to not only keep a painstaking record of every single cent that moved around in the syndicate, but also to invent a whole secret code to write it all down.

“I guess that way, in the unlikely case that it falls in the wrong hands, they won’t realize what they’re looking at right away. Hold on, I’m not sure.” Charlie scanned a few more pages for a couple of minutes. Numbers saw Wrench bumping his knee up and down in his seat, getting antsy with anticipation.

“Yep, definitely a code.” Charlie concluded, putting the book down.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Do you realize what this is?” The other man asked him, tapping his finger on the leather-bound cover of the ledger. “This is leverage. If we’re smart, we could use this to bring them down without firing a single bullet.”

The amount of effort that Numbers put into to _not_ roll his eyes could move mountains. “I swear to God, if you start telling the story of how Al Capone got busted for tax evasion, I’m going to get up and leave right now.”

“I wasn’t going to, but now that you mention it, that’s an apt comparison.”

“Anyway, that ledger is not much use if we can’t even decipher what it says.”

Charlie pursed his lips, and Numbers sensed that he wouldn’t like what the other man was going to suggest.

“I’m just saying…” Charlie said carefully “I’m pretty sure the FBI has cryptographers that can do that. And if not them, one of the other million alphabet soup agencies the government has lying around.”

“If you ever say those three letters together again, we can’t be held responsible for our own actions.”

This time it was Charlie who rolled his eyes. “Wow, dramatic much?” _Is it always so annoying when I do it?_ Numbers thought.

He was about to reply with some smartass retort, but suddenly the door flew open and the secretary from before barged into the office, rifling through a bunch of dossiers in her hands. Charlie yelped, and threw a random folder on top of the ledger to cover it. It was a good thing that she was distracted with whatever she was carrying, because her boss sucked at being stealthy.

“Jesus, would it kill those people to list these things in chronological order? I’m getting a headache just trying to figure out which ones take priority.” She lifted her gaze from her papers and met the surprised faces of the three men in the room. “What?”

“Felicity…” Charlie closed his eyes for a moment and spoke very gently. “You really need to stop doing that.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. Duly noted” she said, and from the tone in her voice Numbers was sure that she would forget in about ten minutes and keep doing it all the same. “I came to remind you that you have the meeting with the guys from Mayo Clinic in twenty minutes.”

Charlie opened his mouth with dismay and he threw a hand over his face. “Crap, that was today?”

“Yes, Charlie, that was today. They’re already waiting upstairs.” She came close to his desk and dumped one of the dossiers in front of him. Her tweed skirt was just about long enough to not infringe the office dress code, and from that close, Numbers could smell the Miss Dior on her. “Don’t worry, I already prepared a few notes with all the important stuff to go through. We’ve gone through this before, you got this.”

“I got this” Charlie nodded, standing up. He took the documents and started going through them, holding the whole stack in front of his face while at the same time trying to straighten out his clothes with his disabled hand. Felicity was waiting for him, her hand on the doorknob, but eventually she grew too impatient and marched back to her boss.

“Jesus, Charlie, you’re a mess!” And before he could protest, she was adjusting his tie and collar with hasty tugs and awkward pats. She paused for a moment, frowned, and leaned forward. Charlie visibly leaned back, his eyes wide. “Do you smell like _weed_?” She asked incredulously.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He said in what was supposed to be an authoritarian tone.

“Jesus Christ.” She mumbled and finished adjusting his tie. When she seemed satisfied with the result, she hummed lowly. “Put on some cologne before you go, hopefully they won’t notice.” That said, she picked up her dossiers and strutted out of the room.

Wrench and Numbers exchanged a wordless look. Charlie cleared his throat. “Um… Yeah, I’d better get going.”

He was already on his way to the door, his nose still buried in the pages, when Numbers called out to him. “Wait, what do you want us to do in the meantime?”

“It’ll only be thirty, forty minutes tops.” Charlie replied. “I dunno, they have magazines in the reception downstairs if you’re bored. See ya later.”

 

Those “thirty minutes” easily turned into an hour, and then an hour and a half, with no end in sight. There was nothing of interest in Charlie’s office so they went on to wander through the building shortly after he’d left. Besides, it would look suspicious if they stayed in there unsupervised for too long, especially after the rest of the staff started rolling back in after lunch break. The office spaces were eerily quiet and people gave them weird looks when they passed by. In the break room on third floor they encountered two women and a man gossiping in hushed tones over vending machine coffee, but the three employees shut up abruptly when the two newcomers showed up, so Wrench and Numbers awkwardly left. On the basement levels, the building resembled more an industrial plant, with big open space storage areas. A heavy metal door led to what appeared to be some kind of workshop, but it was restricted access only and you needed a code to enter. Eventually they got bored of going up and down the stairs aimlessly and decided it was a good idea to go pester the only person in that building apart from the CEO who had addressed them.

“Hey, Felicity” he greeted her with a beaming smile that he hoped didn’t look too fake. “Now that’s a pretty name.”

She was chewing on a pencil while she read, her eyes transfixed on the computer screen. With a startled look in their direction, she quickly put down the pencil and pretended she hadn’t been chomping down on it just two seconds ago. “Oh. Can I help you with anything?”

“I feel like we haven’t introduced ourselves properly.” Numbers said cordially. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms…” he ogled the nameplate on her desk “Hayes.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you too, Mr…”

“Tallis. And this is my friend, Mr. Ferguson.” Mr. Tallis was a divorce lawyer whose ad Numbers had seen on a billboard on the road that morning, and Ferguson was the name of the family-owned bakery where Charlie had made them stop to buy those pastries. He wasn’t feeling very inspired today, alright.

“Uh-huh. Is there anything that you need?”

He leaned on the desk casually, holding eye contact the whole time. She perceptibly leaned away, although she probably wasn’t conscious of it. “Nah, we’re fine. We just wanted to talk. I feel like we’re going to be sticking around here for a while, so we thought it would be a good thing to get familiar with the company and employees, y’know. Could you show us the ropes, give us a quick rundown?”

“That’s… great, but I’m really not the most qualified person for that job.”

He rested his head on his hand and gave her his best practiced puppy dog eyes. “Come on, that meeting is taking forever. How about you humor us for a while and we don’t tell Charlie that you were playing Pac-man instead of working?” He added a wink at the end.

She chuckled despite herself. “Nice try, but he knows I prefer minesweeper.”

“Ah, truly a woman of taste.” He knew he’d won her over when she laughed again.

 _‘She thinks you’re flirting with her’_ Wrench signed. He didn’t look very impressed.

 _‘Don’t be jealous, you know I only have eyes for you.’_ When she looked at them with confusion, he said: “Mr. Ferguson says he’s looking forward to working with you.”

Felicity gave Wrench a beaming smile, who to his credit looked a bit taken aback by it. She opened the box of pastries and offered it to them. “I’m not going to eat all of these on my own.”

“Thank you, don’t mind if we do!”

They ate the pastries around her desk while she told them random facts about the company, some of which they could have found out by themselves with a bit of research, and some that were less likely to be public knowledge. Like the story about the market strategist who had resigned because of “unreasonable working conditions”, only for management to find out later that he’d stolen three thousand dollars worth of office supplies before leaving. Numbers couldn’t fathom what the fuck would anyone possibly need so many staplers for, but he guessed that it involved some scam selling coppery. Wrench, however, had the theory that the guy was planning to build some type of previously-unseen assault weapon with them. Numbers listened to everything Felicity said for the most part, but really he just wanted to pry her for information about Charlie.

For a moment there, he’d thought that she was a stuck-up trust fund princess, but she wound up being very natural and even funny. He gave up trying to translate everything she was saying halfway during her retelling of the Christmas party at which she’d drunk too many tequila shots, covered herself in tinsel garlands and pretended to be a kraken. “So, how long have you been working here?” He asked her in between bites of sticky creamy pastry.

“Three years since last September.”

Wrench was looking around like he was looking for something to clean the crumbs off his hands and mouth. Numbers quickly grabbed a paper towel from a box dispenser Felicity had on the table and gave it to his partner before he decided to just wipe his hands on his pants. “They treat you well here? Is Mr. Gerhardt a fair boss?”

“Eh… I’d say he’s more of a benevolent dictator” she said casually. “Seriously though, in ten years of work experience, he’s the best boss I’ve had by far.”

Numbers frowned. “You were working as a secretary in high school?”

Felicity looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’m thirty-two.”

“Really?” She looked like a damn kid. Granted, Numbers was used to dealing with worse for wear thugs and washed-up prostitutes who looked older than they were thanks to a lifetime of substance abuse. Maybe his perception of age was a bit skewed. “Well, congratulations on your superb genetics.”

“Um, thanks?”

 _‘Stop beating around the bush. Ask her about the important stuff’_ Wrench said.

 _‘I’m trying to. I can’t outright ask if her boss has an illegal business on the side. I have to be subtle’_ he replied.

_‘You suck at subtle.’_

She was looking at them expectantly with that awkward smile again, so Numbers assuaged her. “I get the impression that Mr. Gerhardt is a trustworthy person, but my friend isn’t so easily convinced.”

“Well…” she shifted in her seat and chose her words carefully, like he was putting her in a compromised position. “All I can say is…”

“You two, stop harassing my assistant!” Charlie’s voice suddenly erupted from behind.

Numbers gave her an apologetic smile and shrugged. “Good talk. See you around, Felicity.”

They followed Charlie down the stairs to the parking lot. He was being very quiet.

“I hope the folks from Mayo Clinic are open-minded about the medical uses of marijuana” Numbers said to break the tension.

Charlie scoffed. “If only. I almost wanted to jump out the window at one point.”

“Man, you have the patience of a saint. I would have told everybody to fuck off and leave me alone hours ago.”

“Good thing you don’t run a business then.”

They arrived at Charlie’s car, but he just stopped there with the keys in his hand and zoned on like he had forgotten where he was supposed to go. They hadn’t actually agreed on what they were going to do after Charlie was done with his working duties for the day, so his disoriented state was understandable.

“Do you want to go home?” Numbers asked. “You look exhausted.”

“I _am_ exhausted.” He thought about it for a moment. “It’s Friday night. I need a drink.”

 

The bar lounge Charlie took them to was a bit more chic and sophisticated than what Numbers was used to. The clientele looked more urbanite, too. Most of them were people in their thirties dressed in business casual clothing, conversing over cocktail glasses under the color-changing lights of lava lamps. Charlie ordered for the three of them and asked them what they wanted. Wrench just asked for a beer. Numbers drank bourbon, and Charlie ordered the same for himself.

“This place looks like something you’d see in one of your nightmares after watching too many episodes of Star Trek” Numbers described. A small group of people at the end of the bar laughed and cheered loudly at something that one of them had said. “See, this is why I prefer to buy a bottle of Jameson in the supermarket and drink it at home.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Follow me.”

They sat in one of the booths in the back, the two hitmen on one side and Charlie facing them on the other like they’d been doing so far. They fluorescent lights along the walls were faint and Numbers asked his partner if it was too dark for him, but Wrench assured him that it was fine. They nursed their glasses of overpriced liquor, and let the mind-numbing atmosphere of the bar lull them into self-reflection.

“You said before that no one in your family expected Hanzee to do what he did.” Numbers said. It felt strange to call their former employer by that name. “Is that so?”

“I don’t know if he planned it for long, or if one day he just snapped and decided to go for it.” Charlie answered. “Whatever feelings he harbored against my family, he never said a word. That was what made him such a good enforcer, you know? Nobody could ever guess what the hell he was thinking.”

Numbers chuckled. “Yeah, I can believe that. Trust me, that hasn’t changed one bit.”

“’Their voices were even and low, their eyes were level and straight, there was neither sign nor show when the English began to hate’.” Charlie recited cryptically, running a finger through the lid of his glass. “’It was not preached to the crowd, it was not taught by the State, no man spoke it aloud when the English began to hate’.” He stared into the coppery depths of the bourbon, pondering over those words, and then he tipped the glass back and downed the rest of the drink in one go.

“What does that mean?” Numbers asked.

“I think it means… that resentment isn’t something that develops overnight. It stews for a long time, slowly, patiently, and by the time it reaches the point where you finally notice then it’s too late.” He tapped his finger on the glass. “There was plenty of resentment to go around in my family. My grandfather resented the world for destroying his homeland and making him emigrate to a foreign country at a young age. My eldest uncle resented my father for having to compete with him for their mother’s favor. My cousin resented her dad because he treated her like an ignorant child… Sometimes I think that they were always set for self-destruction. If it hadn’t been Hanzee and the Kansas City mafia, it would have been something else.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to live like that.”

Charlie sagged down in his seat, looking lost in his own despondent thoughts. Great, so he was a depressed drunk. Numbers sure knew how to pick his company.

“Do you believe in karma?” Charlie asked them all of a sudden.

Numbers repeated the question in sign language, but Wrench indicated with a wave of his hand that he’d understood well enough, he just didn’t want to answer.

“I believe…” Numbers said, surprising himself by even answering that kind of question. “I believe sometimes things just happen. And trying to find some deeper meaning to them will only drive you crazy.” He checked his watch. “I think we should call it a night.”

Charlie nodded weakly. “You wanna know another reason why I work so much? Some nights, the idea of going home to that empty apartment makes my skin crawl.”

Wrench chimed in. _‘He just needs to get laid.’_

“Maybe you should get a dog or something?” Numbers suggested.

Charlie shook his head. “I’m never home. What would I do, leave the dog alone in the apartment the whole day? No, it wouldn’t be fair on the poor animal.”

Wrench asked if Charlie had ever tried using that line with Felicity, because apparently chicks went crazy for animal lovers, and Numbers couldn’t help but snort into his drink.

“What?” Charlie asked, frowning with annoyance.

The hitman let out a nervous chuckle. “He, heh, he wants to know if you’re boning your secretary.”

“Woah. The concept of ‘tact’ is completely alien to you two, isn’t it? And the answer is no.”

“But you want to, don’t you?” Charlie rolled his eyes at him and refused to answer. Numbers’ eyes bulged out, and he cackled maniacally. “Oh my God, you do! You totally want to shove her on top of a photocopier and put your Germanic babies in her!” He was giggling like an idiot by the time he was signing ‘Germanic babies’ with a bit of help from his partner.

“Okay, I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that this doesn’t apply to badass gangsters like you,” Charlie said, clinging to his dignity, “but in the real world, we have things like ‘workplace etiquette’ and ‘sexual harassment lawsuits’.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say.” Numbers gulped down the rest of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

Charlie blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Well… I had a meeting with a supplier, but they cancelled. Why?”

“He and I were talking while you were in that meeting,” he said, pointing at his partner. “We’re going to need more intel for this. There’s someone you should talk to. And tomorrow night might be our only chance to meet with him safely.”

“Will I be interested in what this person has to say?”

Numbers smirked. “Trust me. You will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered that I could write banter all day and nothing else and have a blast at it.
> 
> I finally decided to add Charlie to the character tags. It felt like it was about time. Old readers, sorry for the confusion. New readers, sorry for the spoiler-ish.


	12. Canaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long and complex and full of twists.

When he was very young, Charlie had once asked his grandfather what life in the Weimar Republic was like. His question had been met with a scoff and a grimace that spoke of a grievance that was decades long.

“Die Weimarer Republik? A den of squalor and degeneracy, that’s what it was.” Otto spat out the words like they were fish bones between his teeth. “Can you picture your mother stuffing bills into the hearth to heat up soup, because thanks to hyperinflation, it’s cheaper to burn the money than to use it to buy coal? Piles and piles of worthless money, burning in the night. Streets filled with beggars and prostitutes. Pornographers with wicked smiles hiding in plain sight. Policemen either so corrupt or so lacking in resources that they don’t even pretend to enforce the law. You children don’t know what it’s like to starve for days until the hunger is just like a minor annoyance that you grow used to. You don’t know the hopelessness, the resignation, when nobody can help you because everyone around you is starving just like you are. Finally, everyone is equal. Equally miserable, that is. When I was a child, we lived in a farm not too far away from Augsburg. I suppose you could say that things weren’t so bad in there, in the country. Far away from the cities, some days you didn’t notice how badly things had changed. But we had our own problems, too. Unemployment, scarcity… you really couldn’t escape those. My sister Brigitte took a train to Frankfurt the week after Easter. She told us she’d found work as a maid with a rich family. After two months, she stopped answering to our letters. My uncle went there and tried to find her, but nobody had even heard of this supposed rich family she was living with. She was seventeen years old. We never heard from her again.”

Otto went quiet for a long time after that.

“I was thirteen when my father came back for me and brought me to this country.” Grandpa said out of the blue just when Charlie thought the tale had come to an end. “I am now an American, and very proudly so. But you and your cousins will never understand. You don’t know what it’s like to have your motherland torn apart so badly. It’s like… a wound that never heals.”

And after telling him that, Otto had fallen into a deep state of melancholy and asked his grandson to bring him some brandy. The old man had sung quietly to himself with the glass of cognac in his hand, his eyes forlorn and lost in memories. Otto in general didn’t pay much attention to any of his grandchildren. In his rare displays of affection, after a particularly good day in business or during celebrations, he would pull one of them over his knees and sing old lullabies. He’d done it with Simone and Charlie when they were very little. And after they grew too old for that, he’d sung to Karen, and when Karen was too old for that, then he’d sung for Laura and Erika. _Weißt du, wieviel Wolken ziehen weithin über alle Welt? Gott der Herr hat sie gezählet, daß ihm auch nicht eines fehlet. An der ganzen großen Zahl, an der ganzen großen Zahl._

 

Charlie always had strange dreams when he went to sleep after a few drinks. Tonight was no exception. In his dream, he was in the living room of his childhood home, but something was different. It was dark, unnaturally dark, like the void of space. The only source of light in the room was the glow of the fireplace. Otto was sitting in his armchair, staring at the flames. There were no doors or windows anywhere, like they had teleported to that place from another dimension, and Charlie was condemned to spend the rest of eternity in that claustrophobic space with his misanthropic grandfather as his only company.

“They’re not your friends” Otto said in his dream. “They’ll stab you in the back on the first chance. You can’t trust anyone, you know that well. You’re too old now to be so naïve.”

“I don’t need your advice” Charlie heard himself say.

And suddenly Laura was standing by the fireplace, dressed in a yellow sari. A cobra was curled around her shoulders like a shawl, hissing with reptile boredom. He knew it was a cobra due to the distinctive hood-like lobes around its neck, which gave the snake an elegant and prideful look. The eyes of the cobra were glowing amber in the dark, and they seemed to stare right into his soul.

It was not this detail that he found strange however, it was the fact that current-time Laura was standing in the same room as their grandpa. Otto had never seen Laura grow up into an adult, so the fact that the two of them coexisted in the same space was physically impossible.

“Did you figure it out yet?” Charlie’s cousin asked.

“Figure out what?”

“How to break the cycle” Laura said, smiling. The snake around her neck lifted its scaly head. For a second, it looked like the viper was smiling at him, too, its bifid tongue taunting him. “The vicious cycle that binds all of us. That’s what you’re still trying to figure out, isn’t it?”

Charlie looked at the pile of burning wood and saw that the flames were static, like he was looking at a photograph, or like time had frozen in that spot only. The cobra hissed. And then Laura wasn’t Laura, she was Simone, young and defiant like the last time he had seen her in life. And he was glad to see her again, he was, but at the same time, a part of him lamented Laura’s sudden absence. The presence of his youngest cousin was reassuring. His eldest’s, not so much.

Simone was throwing things into the fire. Silver cutlery, crochet tablecloths, baby photos in sepia tint. All the evidence of a place that had a family’s history between its walls. All the little things that turned a house into a home. She was throwing all of it into the burning coals where they disintegrated with a flash of sparks and cinders.

“Stop it!” Dream-Charlie demanded.

Simone just ignored him and kept doing it. She acted like she hadn’t even heard him. And in that moment, Charlie felt himself overcome by a boiling anger, an anger that he couldn’t even explain. And before he knew it, he crossed the room and slapped her. He felt bad about it immediately after. And then a voice called behind him:

“Show yourself, you fucking coward.”

Simone hadn’t even reacted to being slapped. Charlie knew that voice. “Dad?”

But when he turned around, his father wasn’t there. Otto wasn’t there. Simone wasn’t there. There was only darkness, and the hint of a snake slithering on the floor. He was alone, completely and utterly alone.

 

When he opened his eyes, he was lying face up in the middle of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, stiff as a board. Charlie always fell asleep on his side, but for some reason, each time he awoke abruptly from a nightmare it was always in that position, lean and rigid like Tutankhamun in his sarcophagus. He heard the shower running in the bathroom down the hallway and threw a quick glance at the alarm clock. It was a bit early to be getting up on a Saturday, but it wasn’t like he was going to get any more sleep anyway. He pushed the clammy bed sheets away and faced the day ahead.

 

Numbers exited the bathroom quietly, Wrench following close behind him. They found Charlie in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes on the counter.

“Good morning,” Numbers said, sitting down on a stool by the kitchen aisle.

The cutting board Charlie was using had an interesting design. It had a gap on the side he used to hold the knife upright so he could slide things against it like it was a meat slicer. It also had little ridges on the sides which he imagined served to hold fruits and vegetables still for chopping. “’Morning.” Charlie put down two plates of bagels in front of them and made a vague sweeping motion with his hand across the counter. “Eh, I don’t know what you like. Help yourselves to what’s in the fridge.”

Numbers frowned while Wrench just reached out for a jar of strawberry jam and started spreading it on his bagel. “We could just check in to a hotel or something. We have money.”

“It’s okay. The guest room was starting to grow cobwebs.” Charlie said. Numbers gave him a pointed look, and the other man realized that he was being serious. “I just think that we should stick together.”

“Do you feel responsible for us?” Numbers didn’t translate the question to ASL, but he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Wrench and he could tell that his partner was reading every word that came out of his mouth.

Charlie looked shocked by the question for a second before quickly schooling his face again. “Separating right now is a bad idea.” He turned his back on them without saying anything else.

Numbers scowled, but since Charlie wasn’t looking at him, he asked Wrench to pass him the coffee pot instead. “You know,” he said, adding two teaspoons of sugar to his mug, “this feels like the setup of a bland sitcom. ‘Handsome and well-off but socially awkward bachelor navigates existence with the help of his two cynical gay roommates’.”

“I’ll call NBC” Charlie said over his shoulder.

Wrench asked about the convenient board-and-knife appliance, it was little things like that that always piqued his interest. “That’s neat.” Numbers remarked on his partner’s name. “Where’d you get that board?”

“Custom made. It was a gift from my cousin.” Charlie took a ripe plum in his hand and squeezed it slightly several times, like an anti-stress ball. “When you can only use one hand for everything, you have to get creative.”

“How do you… Nevermind.”

Charlie laughed. “How do I even survive on my own?”

Numbers flicked his eyes to the side. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s not like I don’t get any help at all. There’s a maid that comes to clean twice a week.”

“Geez, how loaded are you?”

That comment seemed to amuse Charlie more than anything. “Not as much as you’d imagine. I can’t complain, but I’m not going to be buying any resorts in Fiji in the foreseeable future.” He juggled the plum for a few seconds, bouncing it up and down in his hand. “My family made a big deal out of not flashing our money around. We had a lot of enemies so it was important to keep a low profile. And yes, when business was at its peak they were making a lot of profit, but on the other hand, there were a lot of mouths to feed in that house. My grandmother put a big emphasis on self-sufficiency. We grew or hunted most of our food and she made her own bread. She used to say that if you relied on the government for everything you were giving them tacit permission to take everything away whenever they pleased. Or something among those lines.”

He put the plum down on the countertop and tipped it with his index finger. It rolled across the soapstone surface and came to a stop after knocking against the blender.

“Anyway,” Numbers said, “we should hurry. We have a long drive ahead.”

“Yeah. Give me a minute.”

Charlie was having avocado on toast for breakfast, the posh health freak. He turned his back on them again to grab something from a cupboard. Numbers poked Wrench with his elbow to catch his attention. _‘What a Y-U-P-P-I-E’_ he smirked, pointing at Charlie. _‘I bet he only buys O-R-G-A-N-I-C food and uses a S-A-U-N-A twice a week.’_

Wrench made a ‘V’ with his index and middle fingers and wagged it at him with a reprehensive look on his face.

_‘What?’_ Numbers asked.

_‘You’re too J-U-D-G-E-M-E-N-T-A-L’_ Wrench repeated.

_‘I can’t help it, it’s too easy to make fun of him’_ Numbers said with a shrug. _‘Look at him. I could spend hours mocking him and he would just smile and shrug it off.’_ And Numbers would never admit it, but it was nice being in the company of someone who was easygoing for a change. Sure, they could joke with the other guys from Fargo every once in a while, but there was always an underlying tension between the words. The only exception was the Australian. Numbers could call Jergen a dickhead freely without getting punched in the face for it. The difference was that Jergen would laugh, call him a bloody cunt in return, and ask him to pass him a cigarette.

He realized that Charlie had turned around at some point and was looking at them with a complacent smirk on his face. Numbers huffed out a nervous laugh. Charlie laughed too.

“Ihr zwei seid ein schönes Paar. Ich wünschte ich hätte eine Kamera.“ Charlie said. Numbers’ smile melted away and was replaced by a confused frown. Charlie cocked an eyebrow smugly and raised his coffee mug at them, as if to say ‘gotcha’. “Ja, ich kann auch Geheimnisse bewahren.“

And after taking one last sip and leaving the mug in the sink, he winked his eye at them and walked out of the kitchen, leaving them dumbfounded.

_‘What did he say?’_ Wrench asked.

Numbers shook his head. ‘ _I think he asked how does it feel to get a taste of our own medicine.’_  He couldn’t help it, he just had to laugh at that. “Well played, Mr. Gerhardt.”

 

Evening found them driving up the bumpy trail that led to a decrepit-looking ranch. They were not alone. Despite the estate’s abandoned appearance, there were lots of people milling about. From what they could see in the quickly diminishing light, the place was hectic.

“What kind of horror movie slum did you guys bring me to?” Charlie asked, squinting his eyes. “Is this one of those secret raves? Are we going to take ecstasy with college kids and dance half naked around a bonfire?”

Numbers snorted. “Sorry to break it to you, but no. This, Charlie G, is probably the only place in the whole Midwest where you can witness a real cockfight.”

“What? Seriously?” An older man carrying a wooden crate crossed hurriedly through the beam of their headlights. On closer inspection, turned out it wasn’t a crate, it was a cage with little creatures of the avian variety in it. The chickens’ eyes were eerily reflective in the dark, and their scrawny feathered necks turned to look at the source of the light, like begging them silently to put them out of their misery. “Jesus.”

“Let’s hurry” Numbers said, stepping out of the car. “I don’t want to catch bird flu.”

He led the way to the entrance of the barn where most of the attendants were flocking to. A burly man in cargo pants and a Davy Crockett hat was leaning on the wall of the barn with his arms crossed, checking the people going in and out with a watchful eye. Numbers stopped for a moment, and considered how to proceed.

“Is that guy going to frisk us before we can go in?” Charlie asked behind him, following his line of sight.

“No, that would drive all the customers away.” Numbers sighed. “We were lucky. I wasn’t even sure this place would still be here today. You see, these guys keep getting busted by the police and animal rights activists all the time, but each time they do, they just pack up and set shop in a different place.”

Charlie nodded. “Like a traveling circus.”

“Yeah, sorta. So, they have perfected a system where they can basically dismantle the whole thing and scatter at a minute’s notice. But rest assured, that guy over there is packing. They have a few other armed guys around, but they’re not standing at the entrance searching the people that come in, they’re hiding among the audience.”

“That’s one way to deal with trouble, I guess.”

“They used to set up a makeshift bar in the back, where you could order a drink when you placed your bets. But they got tired of people stealing the beer kegs, so they turned it into a BYOB kind of event.”

They heard cheering and whistling coming from inside the barn, and someone was shouting, trying to make himself be heard over all the noise, “Bets are off, ladies and gentlemen, all bets are off!”

“Please don’t tell me we have to go in there and witness the ‘show’.” Charlie moaned.

_‘The guy at the door is looking at us’_ Wrench pointed out.

Numbers squared his shoulders and marched towards the man in the coonskin hat. Wrench and Charlie trailed behind him.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for Jergen.”

The other man looked at him up and down, and surveyed his two companions as well. Up close, Numbers recognized him from the last time he’d been there. Now Numbers wasn’t a fun of cockfighting by any stretch, but sometimes work forced him to follow his colleagues around to some bizarre and obnoxious places. And Jergen was the most bizarre and obnoxious of them all.

“Who?” The man asked candidly.

“Australian guy, very loud and annoying, hard to miss. If he’s not getting his ass kicked for saying something stupid to the wrong person, he’s probably passed out drunk somewhere.”

The incognito bouncer shrugged without moving an inch from the wall he was leaning on. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Numbers smiled, although he was groaning inside. “Man, I didn’t expect to see so many chicks in here,” he said instead. The man frowned and leaned away from the wall a little. “Hah, chicks. Get it? I guess it’s because there are quite a bunch of bikers coming here, right? They bring their groupies with them. Have you ever brought the missus to see a fight? Little family event. But I guess you haven’t because you don’t want her to find out about all the skanks you’re banging on the side on your little weekends job, right Clifford?”

He had just remembered the guy’s name. Numbers wasn’t even sure if the man was married. He thought he remembered overhearing a conversation between Clifford and Jergen once, but he could be confusing him with some other nondescript goon. Anyway, looking confident in what you were saying was fifty percent of the trick. In seconds, he saw his words working their magic.

Clifford tore apart from the wall completely and stood firm. “He’s in the house” he blurted out angrily. “Look, we’re just trying to have fun and make a buck here, so don’t start anything. I don’t know what problem you have with the guy, but whatever it is, take that shit somewhere else.”

“Relax, Clifford,” Numbers said, turning his back on the man. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

He heard the bouncer grumble something about big city hoodlums thinking they owned everything as they walked away.

 

The house that Clifford was referring to was a small farmstead not too far away from the barn. It was rickety and dirty and it had no working electricity. The few drunk people lying around in it made do with camping lights and candles. It was a mystery how nobody had accidentally set the place on fire yet, given that everybody in there looked too drunk or high to be supervising any open flames. Numbers crassly interrupted a couple who were making out on a couch to ask them if they knew where the Australian guy was since they seemed to be the two most sober people in that room. They didn’t know, but the woman asked them if they wanted to buy some coke. Numbers politely declined and asked the same question to a guy in a Judas Priest t-shirt who was zoning out in a corner. The man blinked at them like Numbers was speaking Greek to him, and then his attention drifted to some other partygoer who’d just entered the room. Judas Priest fan screamed something about past misdeeds not going unpunished and hurled himself at the guy with his fists. Numbers exchanged a silent glance with Wrench and Charlie and the three of them quietly left the room and let them go at it.

“How can you be sure that there aren’t any other men from Fargo in this place?” Charlie asked.

“We only know that Jergen is into this stuff because one day he slipped and told me. We were talking about gambling and he said that he always left the lights on in his house before going to a fight because it was good luck. And I asked him, ‘What kind of fights do you like? Boxing? Wrestling?’ And he was like, ‘Yeah… wrestling. Toootally.’ And I pressed him on, and he confessed that a guy in his hometown in Australia used to run this cockfighting derby in his grandma’s shack, and that these fights bring him good memories of the homeland or some shit. He begged me not to tell anyone.” Numbers skirted around a man that was sleeping on the floor. “As you can imagine, if the guys in Fargo caught wind of this, Jergen would be the laughing stock of the syndicate for eternity. Shit, I can already imagine the nicknames.”

They found Jergen in a room on the second floor. He was in the company of a woman with a face full of makeup and dressed in a sequin top and a leather skirt. They were sitting close together on the bed and he had his arm around her shoulders. Jergen was rambling as usual; he was gesticulating wildly with a bottle of whiskey in his hand while the woman watched him with a mix of confusion and… dare he say amusement? It appeared that they had arrived early, because Jergen still had his pants on, thank God.

“…And then the bloke says, ‘how the fuck do you set a holding cell on fire? It’s all concrete and metal, it doesn’t burn!’ And I’m like, ‘duh, the bed sheets and the mattress are flammable, fuckwit’. So we drive over there in me cousin’s car, and we ask the old lady from the Vietnamese restaurant if we can borrow some cooking oil, but she says… What the fuck, mate?!”

Jergen leaped and shouted when they barged into the room and interrupted his idyllic moment. His arms flailed and the bottle flew through the air and smashed on the wall.

“Hi, Jergen” Numbers greeted him. “Care to introduce us to your friend?”

“How the fu… Who let you in?”

“Hi, I’m April” the woman said. She sounded high.

Numbers gave her a very serious look. “I think you should go downstairs.” His tone made it very clear that it wasn’t a suggestion.

“No, I don’t fucking think so!” Jergen protested.

She blinked at Numbers for a second, like she was slowly processing what was happening, and her wide eyes surveyed his companions. Numbers gave her a moment for her drug-addled brain to realize that she was alone in a room with four men who could overpower her in a second with zero effort, and he was giving her a way out. “O-Okay.” She rose from the bed, grabbed her purse and her jacket and timidly walked out of the room. Wrench closed the door behind her.

“What the everloving fuck, Numbers?” Jergen’s outrage poured out as soon as she was gone. “I thought you were fucking dead!”

“Yes, you look clearly devastated by the news of my demise.” Numbers deadpanned.

“Well, I mean, they told me you two are on a black list now, so I guess that means you’re as good as dead! Fuck! They say the boss is going to give a reward to whoever brings him both of your heads in a bag!” His eyes flicked to Charlie, who was watching the scene quietly from the corner of the room. The sight of him seemed to infuriate Jergen more than anything else. “And who the bloody hell’s this guy?!”

Numbers clearly heard Charlie hold back a chuckle behind him. “We found him in the dumpster. He was too cute to not adopt him.”

“Fuck you, Numbers, this isn’t something to joke about!”

Charlie gently chimed in. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m just here for the gambling thrill.”

Jergen scoffed. “Okay, why don't you bugger off while we gentlemen talk? This is none of your business.”

“Shut up Jergen, he’s staying.” Numbers said adamantly. He produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He started pulling one out, but then he changed his mind and put it back in the box. “What kind of reward is the boss offering for our heads, anyway?”

The Australian frowned, like he couldn’t believe that was what Numbers had picked up from his outburst. “I guess you could call it a promotion. I heard something like a permanent twelve percent raise over base salary, plus some bonus of an unspecified amount.”

_‘Only that? I feel insulted’_ Wrench signed.

“Shouldn’t have asked” Numbers grumbled. He crossed the room and took a seat in a frayed armchair next to an empty bookshelf.

“Mate, seriously,” Jergen asked, “What the fuck is going on? What did you do?”

Numbers shared a glance with his partner. “Well, you know how it is. One day you’re harassing Union leaders to convince them to put a stop to that annoying strike, or telling the dealer behind the Youth center to fuck off and go sell his dope in another town… and the next day you just don’t feel like getting out of bed and going to work, so you just say ‘fuck it’. But since your boss is too much of a sociopath to understand what you’re feeling with words, you have to be a bit blunt to make yourself be heard.”

He looked at Charlie while he said it. Numbers couldn’t decipher the look that the other man was giving him, so he looked away and turned to face the Australian instead.

“Fuck me dead, I won’t even try to translate what the fuck you’re talking about.” Jergen said. “I don’t expect you to leave a resignation letter with a nice little boy on Carlyle’s desk and shit, but couldn’t you two just drive away quietly towards the sunset like in those sappy old movies?”

Numbers shrugged unapologetically. “Shit happens”

“Yeah, shit fucking happens! That’s what they said the other day when Shelley got busted! I don’t know if there’s a connection there, but let me tell you, things have been going insane for the last few days since you two wankers vanished! So yeah, a lot of shit does indeed happen!”

“Stop screaming, moron” Numbers said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t really explain it, but everybody’s getting antsy and shit. You can feel it in the air. Nobody trusts anyone anymore. And then there’s the Shelley thing. He killed a public defender and he was going to bury him in a construction site, but then he couldn’t break into the precinct because he’d forgotten to bring wire cutters and all the stores were already closed. So he decided to bury him in a quarry instead, but it was kind of a long drive. And then the dumb cunt had to go and make a scene in a gas station because the cashier wouldn’t accept checks or some shit, so he jumped behind the desk and slapped the cashier, and her coworker called the police. I don’t know, I think he was high or something. I mean Shelley, not the gas station worker who called the police. Although that’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility either, because you should see some of the people who work the graveyard shift in those places. I mean, you gotta have some issues yourself if you’re willing to take the job with such a high incidence of armed robberies, know what I’m sayin’?”

Charlie muttered ‘Jesus Christ’ and Numbers resisted the urge wrap his hands around the Australian’s shoulders and shake him. “Jergen, please, brevity would be much appreciated.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Anyway, when the police looked in his car the body was still inside the trunk. Hell, the moron hadn’t even wrapped the dead bloke, it was leaking all through the carpet.”

“And you still wonder why we wanted to quit?”

“But that’s not the end of it” Jergen continued. “Yes, he got himself caught, but Carlyle basically served him up in a silver platter.”

“You know the rules. You get caught, it’s on you.”

“Yeah, but Administration are supposed to assist you in those situations! At least a little bit, if only to protect their own interests. It doesn’t even have to be much. Chain of custody’s a bitch. You bribe a couple of guys here and there, a bag of evidence gets misplaced at some point along the way, and sorry, nothing we can do, we apologize for wasting your time, Your Honor, case dismissed.”

“It’s bit more difficult to ‘misplace’ a dead body, especially when it was found in the guy’s car.”

“Perhaps saying that Carlyle ‘served’ him up is a bit of a stretch.” Jergen leaned forward and reached for something underneath the bed. He pulled out another bottle, of which he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. “It’s more like he sat back and let it happen. And then this morning he gathered us all in a meeting and, essentially, he said that bribing judges and commissioners is a too substantial expense, one that will only be granted in very, I quote, ‘exceptional cases’.”

“Guess that Shelley didn’t fall into the ‘exceptional’ group.” Numbers mused.

“And they threw him under the bus.”

“And all of this happened since Tuesday?” Numbers clicked his tongue. “At least he’ll have lots of time to work out in prison. He could use the exercise.”

Jergen stopped drinking and gave his colleague a grim look. “No, you don’t get it. Shelley’s really fucked, mate. They say he’s going to get the needle.”

He didn’t understand what the Australian was referring to at first. He looked at Wrench, who just shook his head slowly and made the sign for ‘dead’ or ‘death’ and then moved his hands forward in front of his face to represent some kind of hallway or corridor. When the realization hit him, it made him feel a bit lightheaded.

“What?” he said, looking at Jergen. “There’s no death penalty in North Dakota!” That was one of the first few facts that all Fargo employees inquired about soon after joining the ranks of their organization. It was a little piece of trivia about their beloved state upon which they expressed a great interest, in fact.

“That’s true, but Shelley crossed state lines while transporting the body.” Jergen explained. “And apparently, that makes it a federal crime, which goes by a completely different set of rules, so… Anyway, I’m just passing on this information to you second-hand, so don’t take my word for it.”

Numbers got up from the chair and paced through the room. He opened up the top buttons of his shirt and pulled at his collar. He needed some air, but they couldn’t leave yet, not until they got everything they had come for. If he thought about it rationally, he supposed that being dispatched by a State appointed officer wasn’t much different than getting snuffed by a rival gang during a deal gone wrong. Probably cleaner and less painful, too. But there was something inherently creepy about an officially approved execution, and he didn’t want to give the idea any more thought.

“So, all this tension and mistrust in Fargo,” he asked the Australian. “What do you think is the cause of it?”

“How the fuck should I know? Nobody tells me shit.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You never shut the fuck up, but for some inexplicable reason, something in that personality of yours makes other people open up. You’re a presence you can’t get rid of but eventually you grow used to it like it’s a part of yourself. Like a herpes.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

“Come on, Jergen. People get their guards down around you. That’s your whole shtick, isn’t it? ‘Oh, the Aussie is always half drunk and he’s got the attention span of a goldfish! When you try to talk to him it’s like he doesn’t even listen!’ But you do listen, don’t you? And you remember every single word.” He looked at Wrench for a second. “You thought we didn’t notice?”

Numbers watched Jergen’s whole demeanor change before his eyes. The jittering and flailing stopped. Slowly, he put his hands down to rest on top of his legs. The dopey look on his face vanished and was replaced by something else. Jergen had never looked so calm and focused before.

“Well, well, well. Looks like you have me all figured out.” Even his voice sounded different. More confident. “Since you’re so good at putting puzzle pieces together, why do you even need my help?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Is this a fucking interrogation? On what basis?”

Numbers sighed. “I’m asking you about your opinion on this. Because, as a friend, I genuinely care about your opinion.”

Jergen looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Christ’s sake, don’t speak like that. You can’t come at me with that crap when we both know either of us would turn on the other in an instant to save our own skins.”

“Damn it, Jergen,” Numbers hissed. “If something is brewing in the syndicate, it affects you too. Let’s help each other out.”

The Australian pursed his lips and, for a moment, it looked like he might get up and walk out of the room. His eyes moved slowly to Wrench, standing by the door, and to Charlie, leaning on the wall by the window. He fiddled with the bottle in his hands and squinted at Numbers, like he was seeing him for the first time.

“Alright, here’s what I think” Jergen said carefully. “I think Carlyle is plotting a coup. And I think some of the other guys suspect it too, and some of them are already picking sides. That’s why there’s so much tension.”

“Tripoli would hang him by the guts under a bridge if he even suspected that he’s conspiring against him.”

“If it were anyone else, sure. But this is Carlyle we’re talking about, pal. He’s untouchable. Think about it, who has all the contacts and friends in high places? Who coordinates all operations? Who manages all the bookkeeping and has shit on literally everyone? Tripoli has been delegating on Carlyle too much over the years, if he kills him now he’ll be left without a leg to stand on. And now that mistake is going to catch up with him.” Jergen ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “Carlyle has been paving the way for this for years. Did you know it was him who recommended Watkins for his position? Why do you think that was? He wanted Watkins to owe him a favour, because Watkins has all his men that came with him from Milwaukee and they are very loyal to him. Carlyle has the know-how, and Watkins has the muscle.”

“A match made in hell. But do you have any proof for any of this?”

“Obviously not. But if you put all the pieces together, everything fits.”

Numbers placed his hands on the window and tried to get it open, but the window panes were jammed shut. He pressed his face against the dirty glass and peered outside, but he only saw the dark outline of trees. “I s’ppose it does.” He mumbled.

He felt Jergen’s eyes piercing into his back before he asked the question. “You suspected it too, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“I feel like you already knew what Carlyle is planning. You just wanted to hear it from someone else. That’s why you came here in the first place.” Numbers made the mistake of turning around, and Jergen took one look at him and smirked. “See, this is why you suck at poker. Everything shows on your face.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Despite his previous statement, after over ten years of knowing each other, Numbers still wasn’t sure if he could call Jergen a friend. He wasn’t sure such a concept even worked for people like them.

“So, which part of Australia is that accent from?” Charlie asked all of a sudden.

They all turned to look at him. Jergen eyed him distrustfully, before blurting out “Brisbane.”

Charlie whistled. “You're a long way from home, buddy. I'm curious. How does a guy from Brisbane travel across the globe to end up working for the mafia in North Dakota of all places?”

Jergen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gave the man a lopsided grin. “You know, I could tell you my life story, but it's really long and complex and full of twists. Hell, it could span the duration of several movies. 'The Jergen Trilogy', ha. Let's leave that conversation for another day, eh?”

“Yeah, let's.” Numbers settled it. He turned to look at Jergen. “So have you?”

“Have what?”

“Picked a side.”

Jergen threw his hands up in the air. “Pal, have you ever been in a room with Watkins for five minutes? I’m not exactly looking forward to that change in management.” He took another swig of whiskey and covered a small burp with his hand. “At least with Tripoli you know what to expect. He’s a man who lives by simple rules. But Carlyle likes to play mind games with people, watch them squirm. I’m afraid of Tripoli, sure, like anyone else.” He looked down at the bottle and started tearing off the label. It reminded Numbers of a child picking at a scab on his knee. “But Carlyle scares _the shit_ out of me.” Now he was whispering. “I swear, fuck, there’s something about that guy that’s just wrong. And I mean wrong as in _satanic_.”

Numbers closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Jergen, for the love of God, put down the bottle. You’re going to kill off the few brain cells you have left.”

“I’m serious! There are rumours. There’s people out there who swear they’ve seen some shit around Carlyle but they’re too afraid to talk. They say he’s into some fucked up occult shit.”

“Really? Like what?”

“I don’t know. And fuck, I think I don’t want to know. I’ve heard all kinds of crazy stuff. Animal sacrifices, voodoo rituals to make your enemies drop dead from heart attacks, drinking smoothies of aborted fetuses to stay young forever, that kind of shit.”

“Well, if that’s what he does, it’s not working very well!” Numbers said flippantly. “Give me a fucking break.”

“I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, mate.” He turned his attention to Charlie. “Your friend over there is looking a bit pale. Hope I’m not offending his sensibilities or anything.”

“You’ll have to try harder than that” Charlie said with dare.

“Ooh, is that a challenge I hear? Pretty boy is not afraid of the big scary gangsters?”

“Jergen, shut the fuck up” Numbers said, and was completely ignored.

“Who is this guy, really?” The Australian asked. “One look at him and you can tell that he doesn’t fit here. Let me guess, another one of those bored posh lawyers who think they can play at being wiseguys? Just fuckin’ look at him. His gut is telling him to get the fuck out of here, but the stubborn wanker feels like he’s got something to prove.” He flailed his arms dramatically. “Run away, quick! The boogeymen are coming! They’ll come to your house at night! They’re going to kidnap your dog, steal your wife’s underwear and rape your grandma!”

“Jergen” Numbers warned him.

Charlie simply smiled at the Australian. Slowly, he walked over to Jergen and stood directly in front of him. Jergen looked up at him, and Numbers noticed that his grip on the bottle stiffened.

Charlie turned his head to the side and looked out the window. “It’s funny. You got zero out of three. I don’t even have a dog. Or a wife. Maybe I should get myself one of each, after all.” Jergen glared at him. Charlie inched forward and looked him in the eye. “Oh, and by the way,” He reached out, and before Jergen had time to react, Charlie had grabbed him by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back painfully. He pressed his thumb on the wrist tendons and the fingers stretched out, losing their hold on the bottle. Jergen screamed a bunch of profanities and tried to claw at him with his other hand, but Charlie dug his knee on the Australian’s back and shoved him face down on the bed. Numbers thought about stepping in to intervene, but he wanted to see how this turned out. Charlie leaned down and whispered in Jergen’s ear: “Mention my grandmother again and you’ll need to buy a new set of teeth. And kneecaps.” He released his grip on the Australian, who quickly jerked away from him.

“I’ll go check on the girl” Charlie said before strutting out of the room.

Jergen grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. He gave Wrench and Numbers a look of disbelief. “What the fuck is that guy’s problem?!”

Numbers shrugged. “He’s very sensitive about his grandma.”

“Suck my dick, Numbers! Where did you find him? Who the fuck is he, seriously?”

“The prince of Bavaria.”

“Fuck you. So you two disappear for a few days and suddenly you’re besties with this guy? How long have you even known him?”

_‘Don’t answer that’_ Wrench said.

Numbers was this close to jumping on that bed and landing a punch on that wombat’s face. He was fucking sick of it all. Sick of lying, sick of second-guessing himself, sick of speaking in vague sentences to avoid answering difficult questions. But more than anything, he was sick of everybody questioning his choices.

“For one, he’s been nicer to me so far than you ever have in all the time we’ve known each other!” Numbers screamed back at Jergen. Only after saying it did he realize that it was true.

That seemed to shut Jergen up. His face went slack, and he looked sad, almost humbled.

“Shit. You really left for good. You’re not coming back.”

“Well, it’s not like we have much choice in the matter now, is it?” Numbers picked up the upturned bottle from the duvet and helped himself to a drink. It tasted awful. “What are you going to do?”

“Me? I don’t know. You asked me before about picking sides, but frankly, it’s like the sides are already chosen. Carlyle has his favorites, that’s no secret. Trying to kiss his ass now isn’t going to make a difference. He’s either put you in his good book or he hasn’t.”

“You don’t have much faith in Tripoli, do you?”

“Let’s look at it like gambling. Look at the odds and variables and past track record of both participants. In my opinion, it’s clear cut.” Jergen grabbed the bottle from Numbers’ hands and gulped down the remaining contents from it. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know it’s going to be ugly. For everyone. Hell, maybe I should follow your example and run for the hills before the shit hits the fan.”

“Maybe.” Jergen didn’t ask if he could come with them, and Numbers wasn’t going to offer. He watched the Australian for a beat, and asked a bold question. “You don’t want a twelve percent salary raise?”

Jergen gave him a mirthless smile. “Don’t you know? I’m the village idiot. I probably dreamed this whole encounter while I was drooling on the floor.” He hurled the bottle against the wall, but either it was tougher than he thought or he didn’t throw it very hard, because it simply bounced on the wall without smashing and landed on the rug with a thud. He looked at it with disappointment and let himself fall back on the bed. “Go. Just… go. Before I regret this.”

Wrench and Numbers glanced at each other. _‘We have to go’_ Wrench signed. _‘It’s dangerous to stay here.’_

Numbers looked at the Australian. He was sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He always acted so carefree and foolish, like nothing in the whole sordidness and absurdity of their lives could perturb him. Seeing him look so defeated for the first time felt like a kick in the stomach. Numbers put his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Good luck, Jergen.”

He didn’t say goodbye either. When they left, Jergen was muttering a jumble of curses, self-pitying remarks, and a Hail Mary.

 

Charlie was waiting for them in the porch, lost in thought. Numbers followed his gaze and saw that he was watching a small group of people huddled around a bonfire, talking animatedly amongst themselves. The girl from Jergen’s room was among them, although it looked like she wasn’t contributing much to the conversation.

“Well” Numbers spoke and signed, “this was a huge waste of time.”

Charlie turned his attention away from the bonfire. “Oh, I wouldn’t say so. Your friend from down under sure likes the sound of his own voice.”

“I have no idea how he hasn’t gotten himself killed yet, running his mouth like that.”

Charlie didn’t reply to that. He went back to watching the group from afar. “It’s a story older than dirt,” he reflected. “If an empire lives on long enough and doesn’t get invaded by outside forces, eventually it destroys itself with infighting.”

“Good!” Numbers said. “Let them cannibalize each other. Hell, I’ll bring the popcorn!”

Charlie didn’t comment any further. Sensing that she was being watched, April turned around. She threw a few furtive glances at them before looking away and huddling herself in her coat.

“Something about that girl isn’t right.” Charlie pointed out.

“What, that she’s a hooker? Yeah, I figured.”

“No, I mean– Not just that. She looks terrified.”

Unexpected to the three of them, April separated from the group and approached them out of her own accord.

“Hey, you guys got any smokes?” She asked.

Numbers obligingly produced a cigarette for her and gave her light. “Sorry about the Aussie. He can be a pain in the ass.”

“It’s okay” April said with a puff of smoke. “I thought he was funny.” She was wearing fingerless lace gloves, the kind that would look good on a gothic chick who took the subculture seriously, but they looked weird with the rest of her outfit.

“Did he say if he came alone?” Her face turned distrustful at the question, so he quickly added, “We were supposed to meet with some friends here, but I haven’t seen them yet.”

“He didn’t mention anyone. I think he was alone” she said, still looking at him warily. She kept scratching at her left hand through the glove. Numbers took a second look at her, and this time he looked closely. Underneath all that makeup, it was easy to see how young she looked. Not underage at least, the crevices around her mouth and her lack of baby fat ruled out that possibility, but she was still too young to be hanging out in a place like that. Numbers was almost afraid to ask.

“How old are you?” And of course, Charlie had to go and ask.

Her face turned hostile. “Are you fucking cops? I wasn’t doing anything. Arrest me if you want, I’ll be out tomorrow morning.”

Numbers inched forward and looked at her in the eye. “Do we look like cops to you?”

The threatening undertone in his voice seemed enough to convince her, but now she looked scared rather than pissed. “O-okay, sorry. Uh… I have to…”

Suddenly, Wrench grabbed her hand. She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong and now she looked positively terrified. Wrench pulled at the hem of her glove and removed the fabric. The letters ‘DI’ were carved in the back of her hand with crude lines. Numbers recognized that type of branding. It was made by cutting into the skin with a razor and pouring ink directly on the open wound.

Fucking hell. It wasn’t enough for whoever did that to brand her like she was cattle, they also had to do it in the most painful way imaginable. Every time Numbers thought that he was used to seeing things like that and nothing could faze him anymore, the world came up with more creative brand new horrors to throw in his face.

Wrench let go of her. She cradled her hand against her chest, shaking.

“Who’s ‘D.I.’?” Numbers asked.

“My boyfriend.” She whispered. He could see in her eyes that it was a lie she told herself. Boyfriend sounded much better than pimp, after all. “His name is Damian, but everybody calls him DI. Double Indemnity. You know, like the movie.” She cracked the kind of smile one would see on a lobotomized patient. “It’s ‘cause his uncle died when his tractor rolled backwards and crushed him and Damian was paid double for his life insurance. Except that it’s kind of an open secret that it wasn’t really an accident.”

“And he makes you work for him doing this” Numbers said.

She recoiled, and averted his gaze. “It’s just temporary. We’re saving money to move away. He says he’s going to buy us a house in Cincinnati.”

Charlie stepped forward. He took the girl’s face in his hand and forced her to look at him. “April, listen to me” he said. “That’s never going to happen. You need to get away from him.”

She started breathing heavily through her nose, and she looked on the verge of tears.

“He’s got all your money and papers.” Numbers said. “Your driving license, your social security card… Your phone…”

She nodded weakly. “He’s got everything” She whispered.

“Where is he?” Charlie asked.

She closed her eyes and made a sound like a choked back sob. “He’s in the back. He’s the one with the studded jacket.”

When she finally ran away, they made no attempt to stop her. They stayed right there in silence. It looked like they didn’t know what to say. Wrench had that expression of anger and resignation that Numbers knew very well, but Charlie looked like he was in shock.

“Let’s just go” Numbers said softly, because one of them had to take charge. “I don’t want to stay here for another minute.”

A somber atmosphere loomed over them as they walked back to the car. Numbers noticed that Charlie’s hand was shaking.

And then, Charlie stopped dead in his tracks abruptly. He didn’t move. He just said, “No.”

“Charlie,” Numbers said sternly.

“No. No. Just no.” Charlie turned to face him. What Numbers saw in his face made it easy to understand why the Gerhardts managed to control an entire state with an iron grip for decades. It was a look of unshakeable determination. It ran in his blood, that much was clear.

“You think I’m not disgusted by what we just saw?” Numbers hollered. “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

Charlie gave him a look that spoke without words.

“Are you fucking insane?” Numbers all but squeaked. “You want us to play vigilantes all of a sudden?”

“Why the fuck not?” Now Charlie was raising his voice too. “That girl practically gave us a description of the scumbag! She was begging us for help!” He waved a hand in the direction of the barn. “Look around you! Nobody in this place is going to say a peep if a guy turns up dead come morning! If anything, they’ll get rid of the body themselves and pretend it’s someone else’s problem! What’s stopping us, huh? Really?”

“Are you fucking serious… Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Wrench was witnessing their argument with evident confusion. They were talking too fast for him to catch up. _‘What is going on?’_

_‘This idiot wants us to kill the pimp because he feels bad for the girl.’_

Wrench simply blinked at him in response. He turned to Charlie and asked him for the car keys, making the sign of twisting his curled index finger against the palm of his other hand. Charlie evidently didn’t understand what the other was saying, and seeing that Numbers wasn’t going to offer any help, Wrench pointed at the car and mimicked opening the door with insistence. Charlie stammered “Um, sure, okay” and gave him the keychain. Wrench unlocked the car and rummaged in the trunk for a few seconds before coming away with a tire iron. He brandished it on Numbers’ face with a look of defiance.

Numbers was speechless. “Oh. I see. Nice. Two against one. Very fucking democratic. Well fuck me, I guess I have no choice now.” He scowled at Wrench. _‘We’ll come back with the guy. Be ready and wait for my signal.’_

Wrench nodded and put down the tire iron. _‘I’ll be right here.’_

Numbers began to trudge back towards the outhouse in between grumbles, and Charlie quickly followed after him. “Let me talk and play along.” Charlie said. “I have an idea.”

“Fine. But when it comes to the ugly part, you step back and let us do the heavy lifting.” Numbers said.

“You think I can’t handle it?”

Numbers would have laughed if it wasn’t for the seriousness of the situation. “Hardly. But one more toast guy is not going to make much of a difference to us. You have a lot more to lose.”

Charlie didn’t argue him on that.

“Just don’t call the guy a pimp,” Numbers added. “Believe it or not, some pimps take personal offense at the word ‘pimp’.”

Turned out, there were a lot of guys in studded jackets hanging out behind the house where most of the booze was. Numbers did a sweeping scan of the crowd and discarded everyone who had patches on their leathers depicting which gang they belonged to. That left the one guy with the flashiest and tackiest outfit, a man with short dreadlocks and golden signets on his knuckles. Numbers singled him out with a nod of his head and they approached him slowly. Numbers thanked the poor lighting in the area that made their faces hard to make out to anyone standing by.

“Are you April’s boss?” Charlie asked.

The man turned around and regarded them with a cautious look. “Who’s asking?”

“You see, the Australian drank too much and he’ll be out of commission for a few hours at least, so I asked her if I could make it worth her while and she was up for it” Charlie said, speaking fast and doing what Numbers assumed to be an impression of a Hoosier accent. “Problem is, when we were about to get down to business she started freaking out like crazy. I don’t know what the fuck the Aussie gave her, I think it was acid or something, but she’s going nuts.”

Damian glanced at Numbers, as if asking him to corroborate that version. Numbers responded mechanically without missing a bit. “Yep. Bitch’s tripping balls. You need to calm her down.”

“Hey, if you want to join the fun, that’s going to cost more” The pimp barked at them.

“Relax,” Numbers said with a hint of irritation. “We can discuss prices after she stops screaming that it’s raining blood from the sky.”

D.I. just shook his head with disbelief. “That bitch needs a smack down.”

The three of them treaded through the frozen soil toward the car. The party was dying down, and the field was empty and quiet, with not even a sliver of moon in the sky to cast down a light on them. Numbers exchanged a silent look with Charlie behind their prey’s back.

When D.I. saw Wrench leaning against the vehicle with his arms crossed, he turned furious. “What the fuck is this? You guys were going to have an orgy? Three for the price of one? You think you can just rob me like that?”

Numbers gave Wrench a nod behind the man’s head. “Do you have life insurance, Damian?”

“What?”

He made the fatal mistake of turning around, and Wrench whacked the tire iron on the back of his skull. Damian staggered for a second and his eyes swayed with confusion before he dropped on the floor where he stood. Wrench smashed the tire iron a couple more times for good measure, until a trail of blood starting dripping down the side of the man’s head.

Numbers towered over the barely conscious body on the floor. He pulled out his gun, and very calmly, he attached the suppressor to the tip of the barrel. “Because if you do, you’re about to make someone very happy.”

He pointed just above the nape, right in the brain stem, and pulled the trigger. Damian’s head twitched for a second, but apart from that, there was no reaction. Numbers bent down and spat on the ground. “Dumb motherfucker. You walked right into the most obvious trap in the world.”

He checked how Charlie was reacting, but the other man was just looking down at the body with a blank expression. Numbers shifted his attention to the task of searching the body. He pulled the dead man’s wallet and subtracted the cash in it before taking a look at his driving license. “A minute of silence for Mr. Damian Morrow.” After a pause, he tossed the wallet on top of the dead man. “Yeah, let’s go before we have to run away from a platoon of pissed off bikers…”

“Oh my God, what did you do?!”

April was standing there, horrified by the sight before her. She spotted the tire iron and the gun and she started to hyperventilate. Charlie strode towards her and enveloped her in a one-armed hug before she screamed.

“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s over now.” He repeated softly, pressing her face against his chest. She resisted him a bit, smacking him weakly with her fists, but she quickly gave up the fight. “It’s over.”

 

They ended up giving her a ride to the nearest town. She sat in the backseat with Wrench and didn’t say a thing for the duration of the short trip. They dropped her off in the parking lot of a hostel. Numbers handed her the money he had taken from Damian’s wallet and she accepted it without a word.

“You’ve never seen us in your life” Numbers said to her.

She nodded. Before she could leave, Charlie leaned forward and held out another bunch of cash through the driver’s window. “Go see a doctor. Get that thing on your hand removed.”

They took off. Numbers fixed his eyes on the rear view mirror as they drove away and wondered if this was going to become a habit for him.

Two towns later, they stopped by the side of the road to dump the tire iron in a storm drain. Numbers moved to the backseat with Wrench.

“Do you always carry that much cash around?” He asked Charlie.

“You told me there would be gambling, so I came prepared.”

“You know this isn’t going to make a difference.” Numbers said, looking out the window. “Shit like this happens under people’s noses all the time, and there’s nothing you and I can do to stop it. Nothing… changes. This was barely a blip in this fucking, rotten world.”

“We’re all mere blips in this fucking, rotten world” Charlie replied angrily. He watched the road for a while, not saying anything. “I did it for the memory of Brigitte.”

“Who’s Brigitte?”

Charlie didn’t answer. Numbers rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’m going to catch some shut-eye. Wake me up if you want me to drive.”

It was late and the drive back home was going to be a long one. Numbers leaned against his partner’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if he dreamed it, but before he drifted off to sleep completely, he heard Charlie murmur:

“Du bist nicht so böse wie du denkst.”

 


End file.
